And I Will Try To Fix You
by Far Away In Wonderland
Summary: Stiles Stilinski wasn't a spark. He was a mage. And that little miscalculation of Deatons' may lead to his fiery death. Okay, it really wouldn't because Deaton contacted some old friend of his, who was a mage as well and who would be the Yoda to Stiles and teach him his mage ways. Mike Ross, on the other hand, could really do without the whole teaching control thing.
1. Supernova

**AN:** This is a thank you gift for benedictcumberbatch on tumblr, who created so many edits and other stuff for me which I am truly grateful for. So, I asked her what kind of story she wanted in return and she decided on a SUITS/TW-crossover. Hope you like it, Maggie!

This story won´t be long - at least I don´t plan it to exceed 20k words - with chapters of around 2k words length. Don´t know when and how often I´ll update as university finals draw near and other projects demand my attention as well. But still I hope that you´ll all like it.

* * *

Mike Ross had a problem.

Nothing life-threatening. Nothing that could destroy his smoke-and-mirror act of pretending that he was a Harvard-qualified Junior Partner either. He hadn't smoked up since the one time Harvey nearly fired him over it and Louis had been suspiciously quiet over the last few weeks. There wasn't any attempt to destroy PSL and no scornful woman that wanted to castrate him for being an inattentive boyfriend.

So what was his problem?

Well, Mike´s current problem had brown, gelled-back hair, a smirk that made your knees wobbly and wore suits that made him look like he was about to leave his job as lawyer to go modelling for GQ or Men´s Health. It went by the name of Harvey Specter and it was also the reason why he currently had to juggle several folders of files he had been ordered to go through.

The problem, though, wasn't that Mike had had to go through several hundred pages of letters so tiny that you needed a magnifying glass to read it – he did that on a regular basis after all and was pretty awesome at it – but rather the fact that he was slowly falling in love with his boss.

Fuck it, who was Mike trying to kid, he was head over heels in love with the sarcastic, cocky and film-quoting ass that was his boss. And right here, in the filing room, he could admit it to himself, because Donna was at least three floors above him and therefore couldn't read his mind. His secret was safe here.

Mike sighed. It had all started as admiration. Because, who wouldn't start to admire Harvey for all that he had done for Mike. He was everything Mike ever wanted to be: self-assured, knowledgeable, successful, rich and doing the job Mike had always dreamed of. And then he had taken down-on-his-luck Mike and had given him the opportunity to reach all those goals as well.

Mike was pretty sure that you had to be a psychopath to not feel slight adoration for the man after all that. But then he had seen behind the façade that Harvey showed all those around him. He had seen a caring man; a loyal man, a just man, a man scared by his past so much that he feared to show all that to the people around him. And the moment Mike had seen this, he had gone off the deep end.

Mike wasn't stupid, though. He was well aware of the fact that Harvey wasn't and would never be interested in him beyond maybe friendship. A long strip of _female_ one-night-stands had driven the point straight home. He had to be satisfied with what he had right now.

Besides, even if Harvey was interested, Mike didn't really know if he could ever dare to show Harvey the hidden parts of himself. The one that not even Trevor or Jenny had ever known, even though they had been his best friends. Harvey may think that he knew everything about one Mike Ross, but he was wrong. So wrong.

Mike was torn out of his thoughts when his mobile began to rang. He looked down on the screen and frowned when he saw the caller´s ID.

"I wouldn't have thought I´d hear from you again," Mike said when he accepted the call. "What do you need, Deaton?"

* * *

Stiles Stilinski had a problem.

Nothing life-threatening. Which, if he was honest – which he was quiet often since he had come out to his dad with all the werewolfy and supernatural stuff – was quiet a surprise. He kind of had become used to being in terrific danger every weekend instead of getting drunk on the many parties that were thrown all over Beacon Hills. By now he was an expert in getting blood and many other disgusting substances off diverse surfaces, like his favourite Batman shirt, the floor in Derek´s loft or Scott´s toothbrush (don't ask).

Okay, maybe he had lied a little bit. According to Deaton his situation may become – with a lot of belief, weird coincidences and bad luck – life-threatening. But hey, Stiles was a firm optimist and yeah, those died first in Beacon Hills, so thinking about it now, his situation was pretty shitty.

"What do you mean I´m gonna die?" he asked Deaton, who was standing in front of his operating table with folded hands and his 'I´m old and sage and mysteriously always have the answer for every of your problems, but only when shit already hits the fan'-expression. Okay, maybe Stiles was interpreting a little bit too much into that.

"I didn't say that you were going to die," Deaton said evenly.

"You said that the magical energies in Stiles´ body would soon reach a point where he would explode like a supernova, taking the whole town with him." Only Derek could deliver a statement in such a deadpan-tone that made you question your whole existence.

"That sounds pretty much like dying to me," Scott added with his sad puppy face of his. Stiles gave both of them his best dark glower, because – _hello!_ – he was right there and he didn't need his friends to discuss his inevitable death while he was still there.

"Don´t be such a drama queen, Stiles," Lydia snapped at him, which made Stiles lift his hands in mock-surrender.

"Hey, don't violate the sanctity of my thoughts," he shot right back. "They´re mine and only a few chosen one will ever get to know them. How do you even know that what I was thinking was dramatic in any kind or form?" He narrowed his eyes at the strawberry-blonde. "Is this some evil-banshee-power manifestation that I have to look out for?" Lydia just rolled her eyes at him.

"I don't need some banshee powers to deduce what you were thinking," she replied bored. "You´re an open book to me." Stiles gawked at her, but before he could come up with something incredibly witty he was interrupted by Deaton.

"I said that there was the possibility of Stiles' magic reacting negatively if we won´t do something to prevent it from happening," Deaton continued as if nothing had happened. That dude was zen as fuck, Stiles thought.

"But why now?" Allison asked and Stiles could hug her for being the only reasonable one amongst his friends. "Stiles had his spark for years."

"And this is where I erred," Deaton replied, the frown back on his face. "I worked under the assumption that Stiles was a spark."

"Yes, I´m a spark, you told me several times," Stiles said.

"But you aren't," Deaton told him. "Do you remember how you defeated the witch coven a few weeks ago?"

"I blew them up," Stiles responded cheerfully. Stupid witches, who thought they could cut out Derek´s heart for some spooky ritual to get more power. He had shown them the error of their ways. Scott had given him the disappointed 'We do not kill' speech, but it hadn't been his crush- _friend_ that was about to be sacrificed to some demon of Hell.

"And therein lies the problem," Deaton explained. "The witches had handcuffs on you that should have prevented you from accessing your spark. I have them here – a pretty admirable handwork. I haven't seen runes that delicate for a very long time. Instead, I have concluded, you took the energy of your surroundings and channelled them into yourself. That is something mages do, not sparks."

"I still don't see the problem," Stiles said confused. "Beside the name change."

"Your body is currently taking in more energy – more magic, you could say – than it´s giving off. At the rate this is going on, it will soon have reached a point where it cannot contain the energy any longer and then – as Derek so aptly put it – the 'supernova' will occur."

"Then just teach him how to handle the energies," Derek said as if he was completely done with their shit.

"I can´t," Deaton replied seriously. "Only a mage can teach another mage how to control his magic. And I am no mage."

"So I´m gonna die?" Stiles asked glumly.

"No, Stiles, as I repeatedly told you, you won´t die," Deaton told him and Stiles liked to think that it was is ADHD-self that made Deaton´s corner of the mouth twitch. "I have contacted another mage who agreed to teach you control. He should arrive in a few days' time."

"Wait," Derek interrupted. "You just invited a powerful stranger into our territory without our say-so?"

"I can vouch for him," Deaton replied. "His parents and I were friends for a very long time."

"Who´s that other mage?" Stiles wanted know. "What´s his name?"

"Michael James Ross."

* * *

"Donna, you goddess of mine," Mike declared towards the unimpressed looking red-head, sitting behind her cubicle. "I have brought offerings." He put the Starbucks cup – of course filled with her favourite coffee – right in front of her, hoping that its aroma would unconsciously make her more agreeable to his demand.

"You have to be really desperate if you hope that the smell of my favourite coffee would make me more sympathetic to your cause," Donna said, completely destroying phase A of his carefully thought out plan. "What do you want?"

"Can you give that to Harvey?" Mike asked with his most desperate puppy eyes, holding out a piece of paper which Donna snapped out of his hand without bothering to look up. He could see her eyes rapidly scanning the pages.

"No," she just said.

"Why?" Mike whined.

"That wasn't the answer to your question," Donna replied. "That´s what Harvey´s gonna say when he reads that."

"It´s just a request for a one week long leave of absence," Mike exclaimed. "I haven't had a free day since I started here four years ago." He paused for a moment. "Besides, I have rights!"

"No, you haven't," came a voice from behind and Mike turned around only to see Harvey walking up to them. "You´re mine until the day you die." And dear God, that statement shouldn't make Mike´s dick twitch in his trousers.

"What are you not man enough to ask me directly?" Harvey continued to inquire when he stood right next to Mike, but his question was directed towards Donna.

"The puppy wants to have one week without leash," Donna answered with a bright smile. Mike squawked indignantly. Goddammit, he would have thought that the two of them would get tired of these puppy analogies after four long years. Apparently, he was wrong.

"Why would you want a one week leave of absence?" Harvey asked. "You never want one."

"Maybe because I have a few things to take care of?" Mike shot back.

"Your social circle only consists of people walking these floors," Harvey replied flippantly. "So if you had things to take care of you wouldn't need a one week leave from the firm."

"An old friend of my parents asked me for help, okay," Mike answered and he could see instant guilt flashing through Harvey´s eyes. The older man always felt bad when he brought up Mike´s parents, maybe because he thought that every mention of them would send Mike into gloomy mood for the rest of the day.

"Where?" Harvey demanded to know.

"What are you, my guardian or what?" Mike exclaimed incredulously.

"Where, Mike?" Harvey repeated, this time more forcefully.

"Beacon Hills, California," Mike replied meekly. There was a moment of silence, then:

"You can have your leave."

"Yeah!" Mike exclaimed and bumped his fist into the air. "Thank you, Harvey." Harvey didn't react, but turned towards Donna instead.

"Cancel all my appointments for the next week," he said. "And book us three tickets to Beacon Hills." Mike´s jaw dropped.

"Wait, wait!" Mike shushed. "You´re not going with me."

"Of course we are," Harvey replied in his 'stop this nonsense this instance'.

"But Harvey," Mike cried out. "You can´t miss a whole week of work because of me!" Harvey couldn't accompany him. He wasn't aware of the supernatural – Donna, Mike wasn't so sure of – and it should stay that way. If Harvey came with him, he would inevitably discover Mike´s biggest secret and he wasn't ready for that. Maybe he would never be.

"Don´t try to be funny, Mike," Harvey said. "It´s not only because of you. Jessica would have sent me there anyway. An old friend of hers with whom she went to Harvard lives in Beacon Hills and she wants me to persuade him to come to work for her."

"Why now?" Donna wanted to know.

"I only know that he was in a coma for few years because of a house fire that killed most of his family," Harvey replied. "But Jessica said that she wants him and I´m her best closer, so…" He shrugged with his shoulders. "Maybe they had something." He turned back to Mike. "So, you see, your request comes exactly at the right time."

Mike just slammed his head against Donna´s cubicle. This, he thought, couldn't get any worse.


	2. Chase

There were few situations worse than being chained up by witches mad for power while they prepared a really unsanitary looking operation table for a sacrifice for a demon straight from Hell, Stiles mused as he tried to make himself more comfortable; something made even more difficult by the fact that he was chained to some column with handcuffs that prevented him from accessing his spark.

Getting those handcuffs on him and been a really nasty experience. It had felt as if an integral part of him had suddenly been cut out of his body, the pain nearly unbearable until it ebbed down to a dull headache in the back of his mind. Everything had suddenly looked so dull, as the colour had been sucked out of everything and a numbness had spread through his mind and body alike. Then the witches had hauled him and Derek into this abandoned factory building and started to prepare their rite.

They should just demolish all the factory buildings in Beacon Hills, Stiles thought sourly as he – again – changed his position, so that he could feel his legs again. It wasn´t as if anything had been produced there since the late 70ies. You could build nice suburban houses there, where evil witches and alpha packs couldn't hide and no showdowns could take place, because some noisy housewife named Karen would immediately tell Barbara, who was such a gossip that soon the whole neighbourhood would know.

"Stiles," Derek hissed form beside him, tearing him out of his thoughts. Which was probably for the best. He had missed one dose of Aderall already.

"Hey, Sourwolf," Stiles grinned. "Fancy seeing you here." Derek just rolled his eyes and it was such a Derek thing to do that Stiles momentarily forgot that they were currently held hostage by a group of crazy witches.

"We need to escape," Derek continued to whisper and now it was Stiles' turn to roll his eyes.

"No shit, Sherlock," he shot back. "I thought we´d stay here and wait for the obviously satanic ritual to take place." From the glare Derek shot him Stile could be glad that the Alpha was as immobilised as he was, because otherwise his head would surely have another meeting with the dashboard of Roscoe…or just the nearest wall.

"Do you reckon Scott and the others will come?" Stiles asked.

"No," Derek shook his head. "They concealed our smell and we don´t know when the others will notice that we´re missing. For now, we shouldn´t hope for their help."

"Be quiet!" one of the witches snapped at them. She may be a looker – with long, glossy, blonde hair and a great bikini-body – but her eyes held a maniac glint that just made you want to be as far away as possible from her. "Soon you´ll be sacrificed for the glory of our Master." The glint in her eyes magnified.

"Yeah, about that," Stiles began, because he was never able to just keep his mouth shut, "I don't feel like being bled dry for some wrinkly demon, so how about we take another day for your sacrifice, maybe never?"

"He dared to insult the Master!" another witch screamed. Witch One just backhanded him. The force of the hit let Stiles see black spots for a few seconds and he could taste the coppery flavour of blood on his tongue. He could hear Derek roar – a pretty awesome roar, if Stiles was to tell the truth, even more powerful than Scott´s (sorry, Buddy) – but the witches just laughed at him.

"Aw, the dog shows his teeth," Witch Three taunted. Then she turned to Witch One, who apparently was the leader of the Crazy Squad. "We´re ready, Muriel."

"Muriel?" Stiles laughed. "Who named you, you´re great-greatmother from three hundred years ago?" Another backhand and another roar from Derek followed. Stiles, meanwhile, understood the message and kept his mouth shut. No need to further antagonize Muriel and her loony squad mates.

"Who shall be the first?" Muriel asked not really, rather just a thought spoken out loud. She looked at Stiles, contemplating, before a grin overtook her whole face. Stiles didn't think that it meant something good for him.

"I think we should start with the Alpha," Muriel said. Stiles limbs grew cold. No, they couldn't.

"Do you really think that´s such a great idea?" he began to blabber while desperately wracking his brain for any plan how they could escape. "I mean, have you looked at him?" He nodded at Derek who just looked at him incredulously. "He constantly scowls, he sours the mood by just existing and those eyebrows?" Stiles wiggled his own. "They´re constantly judging you. _Always_. So you should totally not sacrifice him. Me, on the other side, you should totally sacrifice me. I mean, I´m a Spark still in development, I think your master would value that way more."

During his whole rambling Muriel´s maniac grin had just widened until it looked like it would split her face in half.

"No," she drawled. "I think we´ll start with the Alpha." A short nod of hers and her two companions lifted Derek up to his feet and dragged him towards the table, the stuff – probably some concoction with Wolfsbane – that his handcuffs were coated in making him nearly defenceless against the two petite women.

Stiles tried to stop them, not caring that the handcuffs were cutting into his flesh, not caring that he could feel his warm blood flowing over his fingers, dropping onto the ground.

"Don´t bleed out on the ground," Witch Two taunted. "We´ll need that blood soon enough." Then she threw back her head and let out a shrill laugh. Stiles attempts became more desperate the nearer the ritual drew. Furiously he tried to access his spark, but he couldn't reach the power that usually thrummed underneath his skin, eager to be used. Every time he thought he had grasped it, it trickled away from him, like he was trying to hold sand in his hands.

The witches had dragged Derek on the table, strapping him down with cords that seemed to sap every bit of strength out of him. Stiles could see how his skin would redden where they touched him. Another Wolfsbane concoction.

"Soon our Masters' reward will be ours," Muriel intoned. From the folds of her blouse she pulled a short dagger which blade was inscribed with runes that glowed in a sinister red. "Be ready, sisters." She grabbed the dagger with both hands, raised them above her head and was about to plunge it into Derek´s heart when something within Stiles snapped.

Hot rage washed over him. How dared those filthy abomination harm what was his! Derek was his friend, his Alpha… _his love_ and he wouldn't have some tainted hellspawn taking him away from him. Stiles could feel the energy pulsating around him, in the air, in the ground, in every fibre around him. Without any conscious thought he tugged at him, drawing all the energy into his body. He could feel the handcuffs heaten up and with a loud clang they fell to the ground, still glowing orange from the heat.

Stiles stood up, the energy coursing through him. He felt invincible and he would show those witches what it meant crossing him. Said witches stood there with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

"What are you waiting for?" Muriel hissed. "Kill him!" That command seemed to tear the other two out of their stupor and soon spells in varying shades of colours were flying at him. Stiles didn't even bother with them. They were weak and he simply squashed them like they were nothing more than annoying insects.

Stiles looked at the two witches attacking him, gathered the energy underneath his fingertips and then…just let it free. Dual screams filled the air as every vein in their bodies began to glow and suddenly flames sprung forth from their eyes and mouths. Like puppets which threads had been cut the two witches sank to the ground.

"Don't think about it." Stiles turned around only to see Muriel who had the dagger pointed straight at Derek´s heart. "One move and I´ll take your dog with me." She grinned at him mirthlessly. "And where I´m going he won´t ever come back from."

"You think that you can prevail against me? ME!?" It wasn't Stiles speaking. It was more. The magic around him, his spark, his human rationality and his animalistic instincts all speaking as one. His voice was laced with so much power that Muriel´s hands began to shake until she couldn't hold the dagger anymore.

With a loud clang the dagger fell to the ground, the light in its runes diminishing until there was none left anymore. Muriel took her head between her hands as if trying to block out all the sounds around her, but to no avail. Blood began to trickle down her face, pouring from her eyes and mouth. She screamed; screamed until she chocked on her own blood. Her eyes rolled into her head and then – like her sisters – she fell to the ground; dead.

The energy within Stiles' body receded and fatigue settled in. With last-ditch effort he was able to make his way towards Derek and to loosen up the chains enough so that the Alpha could free himself.

Then darkness overtook him.

* * *

"Mike, dear, would you come out of your room?" Mike could hear the desperation in his mother´s voice but he held firm and didn't move an inch. He couldn't go out of his room and face his parents and grammy. He was dangerous and he couldn't risk to hurt them. Staying in his room for however long he needed to protect his family was well worth the sacrifice.

"You don't need to be afraid," his mother continued. No, he didn't need to be afraid, but his parents should. He was dangerous, after all. He made the light bulbs explode and the knives hover in the air when he was angry. Weird – dangerous – things happened around him and he couldn't let it harm his parents.

"Go away!" he hiccupped. "I´m dangerous!"

"Sweetie," his mother said in her soothing voice and Mike just wanted to throw himself in her arms and forget all his fears. But he couldn't. He mustn't be so selfish. "You aren't dangerous." Mike didn't answer.

"There´s someone here," his mother continued. "Someone who can help you." Mike looked up from the ground, to the still closed door. Hope surged through his body. Someone who could help him controlling whatever it was that made him so dangerous. "He and your dad went to school together and he offered to help us. Will you let him in? So that he can at least talk to you?" Carefully Mike stood up, his bones aching from sitting on the ground for so long, and he made his way to his door.

He opened it and looked up to the stranger that was standing on the other side, his mother hovering closely behind.

"Hello Mike," the stranger said. His skin was of darker brown colour and he didn't have any hair on his head. His whole face held something ethereal – ageless – smooth skin without wrinkles or laughing lines like they were slowly appearing on his parents´ faces. The stranger´s brown eyes looked at him with understanding and compassion and maybe that was the reason why Mike let him in.

"My name is Deaton," the stranger introduced himself.

"Mike," he returned the favour, even though Deaton probably already knew his name.

"Hello Mike," Deaton continued. "Your parents called me because you exhibited some signs of power." Mike nodded. "I´m here because I can help you control it at least until we found someone who can teach you more."

"Really?" Mike asked in awe.

"Really," Deaton confirmed. "I can´t do much and that only because you´re still young and developing, but I can at least prevent you from harming those around you." Before he could continue, though, Mike had already flung himself at the older man and hugged him.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," he was rambling while tears were running down his face. He was so happy that he didn't notice that his mother had come into the room until she was hugging him as well.

Now everything would be better.

* * *

"Hello Jessica." Jessica looked up from the book she was currently pursuing only to find Peter Hale standing in front of her with that creepy grin of his on his face. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Cut it, Peter," Jessica replied. "This is the law library, where else would I be?"

"Partying with our fellow students?" Peter drawled and Jessica rolled her eyes. Peter was well aware that she hated those stick-up-their-ass daddy-children with every fibre of her being. The only other she could tolerate was Peter and that only because he was the only one amongst them who could outmanoeuvre her. Jessica could appreciate cunning and ruthlessness in every form.

"Please, partying with Donovan?" Jessica snorted. "I´d rather set myself on fire."

"Oh my, such imagination," Peter replied gleefully.

Jessica frowned. She didn't really know what Peter wanted of her and that made her uncomfortable. Her whole life consisted of knowing the motives of the people around her and playing them in order to get what she wanted. Peter was an enigma and she hated those. He made her feel out of her depth.

He was constantly around her, always being the one who would partner up with her for projects because no other wanted to work with a black woman. He would sit with her in their breaks and go eating lunch with her. Don´t get her wrong, he made for an interesting and intellectually challenging conversation partner, but still…

Jessica shut her book, stood up and slowly stalked towards Peter; levelling the playing field. At this hour there was no one in the library, everyone else either partying or already home in bed.

"What do you want, Peter?" Jessica demanded to know, bringing her face closer to his. Peter, never one to be intimidated, followed suit.

"What do you think I want?" he whispered and a shudder ran down her spine. Did she just imagine it or had Peter´s eyes just glowed golden?

"I think you want something to play," Jessica replied huskily. "Something to chase. Something that challenges you." She could feel his breath ghosting over her face and never had Jessica felt so thrilled in her life than right now.

"Oh, how right you are," Peter said, grinning like a wolf. Then his lips here crashing on hers.

Jessica had often imagined how it was to be kissed by someone who wasn't afraid of taking what he wanted and right now she was firsthandly experiencing it. She returned the kiss with passion, giving not even one inch for Peter to dominate her. Two apex predators clawing at each other. She could feel the arousal coiling in her stomach, heat surging through her body and from Peter´s flushed face he didn't seemed to be unaffected either.

"In the library," he panted when they had to interrupt their kiss. "What a naughty, little girl you are."

"Maybe if I´m in the mood I´ll show you what else I can be," Jessica teased and led Peter further into the back of the library. This, she decided, was going to be fun as hell.

* * *

 **AN:** Some may ask themselves why Deaton could help Mike when he said that only a mage could teach another mage. That´s because he didn´t really 'help' Mike, but rather he bound Mike´s power until they could find someone to teach him and he was only able to to that because Mike was still young then. I explain that now, because I don´t know if it will ever come up in the story.

What do you think of Peter/Jessica, though? I must say that I love them together. They complement each other really well.


	3. Flight

Mike woke up to an incessant knocking noise. He groaned and buried his head deeper in his pillow, hoping that simply ignoring the noise would make it go way.

Unfortunately, this wasn't to be the case.

"Mike, open the door!" Harvey shouted from behind the door and Mike didn't even bother to suppress the groan making its way out of his mouth. It was too early for this shit.

"If you don´t open the door, I´ll use the replacement key I had secretly made," a female voice chimed in.

"You brought Donna?!" Mike lifted his head and shouted back. Then he stood up, glancing down to make sure that the clothes he was currently wearing wouldn't be a total embarrassment and made his way to the apartment door.

"I knew that I needed the nuclear option to get you out of bed," Harvey said unapologetically as he overstepped the threshold and entered Mike´s apartment, Donna following suit, sending Mike a bright smile.

"And when did you make a copy of my key?" Mike asked of the red-head. He felt that he probably should be more aghast at this breach of privacy, but it wasn't like he expected anything different from Donna. He would be more worried if she hadn't done anything.

"During the Preston case when you didn't go home for three days straight," Donna replied as she let her gaze wander over his book collection; randomly picking some books and regarding their cover. "50 Shades of Grey, really, Mike?" She arched her eyebrows judgingly. Mike could feel his cheeks reddening.

"Jenny gave it to me," he mumbled. "Said that she didn't want such garbage ruining her bookcase, so she gave it to me."

"Not that your discussion about terrible BDSM erotica isn´t pretty exciting," Harvey interrupted the two of them from where he was sitting at Mike´s kitchen counter. "But our flight goes in four hours, so if you would be so kind and hurry up." He made some flourished gesture with his hand towards a pile of _fresh_ clothes were laying on the ground.

So sue him, Mike didn't have the time to put it away, because some people – _Harvey, actually just Harvey_ – were occupying all of his time.

"Let´s see." Donna bustled over to his clothes and began rummaging through it. "It´s spring, so grey and browns are out." She tossed away all of his clothes in the aforementioned colours. "Green is so cliché for spring, it´s like people have no imagination anymore." The pile of discarded clothes grew bigger. "Blue, now that goes very well with your eyes. Now, this –" she held up one of Mike´s Henley's –" is what I call perfect." She threw it to Mike who caught the piece of clothing with one hand. Donna was right, that Henley was one of his better ones; cerulean, it brought out his eyes and emphasized his lean upper body – at least, that was what Jenny told him when she had bought it for him.

"You know," Mike began, amusement tinting his voice, "that I´m a grown man and can pick my own clothes." He pointed towards the already packed suitcase next to the door. He hadn't been that unprepared.

Twin snorts from both Harvey and Donna glued him in that the two weren't necessarily agreeing with his statement.

"Please," Harvey said, "you still come to work in those abominable skinny ties. So don't tell me, you know how to dress yourself."

"The first day of work you came in in a 400$ suit," Donna added.

"400 Dollars," she repeated and shook her head in disbelief as she tossed some dark-grey jeans at Mike. "I had Norma asking me if you were some cheap rentboy Harvey had ordered." Mike´s jaw dropped to the floor.

"What?" he shrieked.

"You never told me that," Harvey added with a smirk on his face. "I´m really disappointed that Norma would think that I need to pay to have sex." Mike just threw up his hands and vanished into his bathroom in order to change his clothes.

Sometimes he wondered what exactly in his life had led him up to this.

* * *

"Nice day, isn´t it?" Stiles rolled his eyes. Scott was as subtly as a wrecking ball crashing through your bedroom wall at six in the morning, but you just had to love the guy for it. Hundred percent honesty. No hidden agenda. Nope, nothing but a dopey smile and the belief that everyone deserved a second chance.

"Scott, in the countless years of our awesome bromance you haven't asked me once if the day was 'nice'," Stiles replied and Scott ducked his head. "So just ask what you really want." Stiles narrowed his eyes. "You don't get my Wonder Woman comics, though. The last one I borrowed you had suspicious white spots on some pages. Dude, that was disgusting."

"I told you that was mayonnaise!" Scott exclaimed indignantly. "I even had Mom back me up!" Stiles just grinned.

"Yeah, dude, I believe you," he assured Scott. "So what do you wanna know?"

"Are you excited?" Scott asked with wide eyes. "I mean, this mage is coming today and you gonna learn all that awesome stuff." Scott´s expression darkened. "I bet he´s better than Derek was when he tried to teach me."

"Unfair, dude," Stiles protested. "I guess, I´m a little bit excited. I mean, who doesn't want to learn how to multiply your chocolate bars? And…the other stuff…I guess it´s pretty awesome as well." To be honest Stiles was a nervous wreck. What if this other mage took one look at Stiles and found him lacking?

Stiles knew that he wasn't what people wanted him to be. He was just the hyperactive ADHD-kid, the mouthy son of the sheriff, the lanky kid that somehow ended up with the beautiful and superstrong werewolves, who couldn't even shut up to save his own life. He was the odd one out and he knew it. But being a mage – it was something that was uniquely him and he didn't want to screw that up. He just couldn't.

"Stop thinking," Scott interrupted his thoughts.

"You don't even know what I was thinking," Stiles pouted.

"Dude, you started smelling like desperation and self-loathing," Scott said and, dear God, life had been so easier when Scott hadn't been able to sniff out how Stiles was really thinking. "You´re awesome and if that Mike Ross can´t see that, well, he can go and spin on it."

"Well," Stiles replied. "Then I´d die."

"Then he can spin on it after he taught you how to control your powers," Scott amended. Stiles smiled.

It was great to have a friend like Scott.

"Soooo," Mike began and turned towards Harvey who was sitting opposite of him. First class flying was awesome, if he was allowed to say it.

Harvey, meanwhile, just arched one eyebrow at him while Donna sipped at the cocktail she had one of the stewards – a male one, and boy, Mike really didn't want to see Donna flirting. It was like watching a tigress eating a terrified chicken – made for her.

"Who´s that mysterious guy Jessica sent you with me for?" he asked. It must be truly important if Jessica was willing to send her second-in-command to the other side of the country for it.

"His name is Peter Hale, he lives in Beacon Hills and he was in the same class in Harvard as Jessica," Harvey answered. "That´s everything I know."

"And she wants you to persuade him to come to work for her?" Mike inquired. "Why didn't she do it herself?"

"Beats me," Harvey admitted. "After all, Jessica is a busy woman."

"You´re really clueless, aren't you?" Donna said from the other side of the corridor. "They obviously had something."

"Obviously," Mike repeated sagely. Donna just shot him an irritated glare which made Mike shut up immediately.

"But they split up in bad blood," Donna continued. "So Jessica can´t go herself, because that would be an admission that she was wrong in the fight that they split up because of. Sending Harvey, on the other hand, can be seen as a peace offer while she still maintains face." She took another sip from her cocktail.

"That´s stupid," Mike commented.

"It´s how successful people work," Donne shrugged. "Harvey sends me my favourite chocolate every time when he is wrong and never mentions our arguments again after that, because he thinks that would make it as if he hadn't been the one to crave in first." She grinned. "I´m not so evil to take away that illusion." Both, she and Mike shared a laugh over that while Harvey glowered at them.

"That´s munity," he complained. "You aren't allowed to gang up on me!"

"Aw, don´t be such a fuss, Harvey," Donna shot back. "You love us."

"Who wouldn't love us?" Mike made his way towards Donna and slung one arm around her shoulders. "We´re the angels sitting on your shoulders." He grinned.

"She," Harvey replied and pointed at Donna, "would definitely be the devil."

"He´s right," Donna admitted. "Besides, a red pitchfork would be the accessoir of my choice."

* * *

Lydia Martin was many things. Beautiful. Intelligent. Fashion-conscious. Until recently the objects of Stiles' unending and slightly creepy obsession. And first and foremost observant.

So who did Stiles think he was that he could keep his full-blown crush on Derek Hale secret from here?

Lydia had taken one look and she had seen everything: The looks that lingered to long on the other male´s body. The feint blush that came over Stiles' cheeks every time Derek would look at or talk to him. The even more incoherent than usual ramblings whenever Stiles talked to Derek.

Oh, that boy had been hit hard.

And it wasn´t as if Stiles' crush was completely one-sided either. Derek was better at hiding it, that Lydia had to admit, but even he couldn't be on guard the whole time. She noticed how the Alpha´s gaze would soften when he looked at Stiles when he thought that nobody else was watching him. How he would always touch Stiles - a hand on the shoulder here, a ruffle through the hair there – and how he would always heed Stiles' advice, even though he made a big show of arguing with Stiles beforehand.

Sometimes, Lydia thought, those two were so obvious that she wondered why anyone else hadn't picked up on them. When Deaton told them of Stiles' now averted death-fate, Derek tried to act cool and stoic, but Lydia had seen how his gaze would turn towards Stiles even more often than usual and how he would touch Stiles even more – as if he wanted to make sure that Stiles was still there and wouldn´t vanish when he wasn´t looking.

And yet, neither Stiles nor Derek had the courage to act on their feelings; always skittering around each other and hiding behind their arguments. If it wouldn't burst everyone's eardrums Lydia would have started screaming in frustration a long time ago.

But Lydia wouldn't meddle. No, a relationship between those two had to come natural, lest they would break apart at the first obstacle. Of course, she would nudge Stiles in the right direction if he ever came to her asking for advice, but for now she was content in watching those two dancing around each other from the side-lines.

Her phone rang and mindlessly Lydia picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Lydia," Allison´s ever happy voice echoed out of the speaker. "I just came back with my parents and I saw that the boutique in Heverton Road has a new collection. Wanna go shopping?"

"Allison," Lydia replied. "What question is that?"

Nothing better than destroying patriarchy while looking good at it.

* * *

Deaton was waiting for them when they left the terminal. Mike nearly let his suitcase drop but possessed the presence of mind to just make it look like an awkward stumble.

"How did you even know when I´d be coming?" Mike whispered, not wanting Harvey and Donna, who were still a few meters behind him, hearing what they were saying.

"I have my methods," Deaton answered cryptically.

"So you scried," Mike guessed. He took a look at Deaton. Over the last years the man hadn't aged a little bit. Still these unblemished skin with no wrinkles and those fathomless eyes. Yet, some things had changed. There was an aura of maturity around the veterinarian, of weariness and quiet determination that hadn't been there the last time Mike had seen the man.

"You didn't set up any wards against it," was Deaton´s only reply, which was as good as an admission. That was the end of their short talk, though, as Harvey and Donna had finally reached them.

"Mike, who´s that?" Harvey asked and nodded in Deaton´s direction.

"Alan Deaton," Mike introduced his former tutor. "The friend of mine who asked for my help." Harvey´s eyes narrowed at Deaton in suspicion as he shook the hand the vet offered to him.

"Harvey Specter," Harvey introduced himself. "Mike´s _boss_."

"Why didn't you contact some lawyer from the West Coast?" he continued to ask.

"You assume that it is legal work I need Michael´s help with," Deaton replied as relaxed as he always seems to be. "Which isn´t the case."

"Then what do you need Mike for?" Harvey pried further.

"That is between Mike and I," Deaton replied and from the way Harvey´s jaw set, Mike knew that he would go into full lawyer-mode if something wasn´t done right now. Luckily, Donna was present as well.

"It´s truly great to meet you," she interrupted. "Because that means that we won´t have to take a taxi to Beacon Hills. Lead the way, Mister Deaton. These are a fine set of feet and they need their rest." She pointed at her red stilettos.

Mike let out a breath of relief. Crisis averted. At least for now.

But from Harvey´s expression, Mike could deduce that this wasn't the last word that would be spoken on the matter.


	4. Conflict

**AN:** I´m tired, I just have a six-hours-long binge learning session behind me and I can hear colours, so I didn´t re-read the chapter before posting it. Hope you like it, nevertheless.

Btw, this is an early Birthday present for Maggie, to whom this whole story is dedicated to. It still isn´t the 24th, so still no congratulations (y´know, we Germans are like that), but this goes out to you!

* * *

The car ride had been Awkward. Awkward with a capital 'A', because Mike had been nearly able to grasp the tension hanging in the air with his bare hands. Harvey was sitting on the back seat behind Deaton – Donna behind Mike – with a gaze so intense as if he wanted to burn through Deaton´s head with the pure force of his will. Mike was glad that Harvey had not a single once of magic in his body, because he was pretty sure that he would have succeeded otherwise.

Deaton was just driving, staring serenely at the road stretched ahead of them. Mike would bet his firstborn that he was one hundred percent aware of the suffocating tension around them, but chose to ignore it in order to observe. Stupid old man and his sagely ways.

Donna was just sitting there, rasping her nails and smirking at Mike whenever she caught him staring at her through the rear mirror. Mike didn't even want to know what was going on in that head of hers. It was probably the best for his continued sanity.

"So, Mr Deaton…" It was Donna that broke the silence, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like she wanted to just see what would happen.

"Call me Alan," Deaton replied. "Mr Deaton makes me sound like an authority figure." Mike snorted. Harvey´s glare intensified.

"So, you know Mike since when?" Donna fished and Mike let out an exasperated sigh.

"You couldn't wait at least until I was out of ear-shot?" he said.

"Where would the fun be in that?" Donna replied innocently.

"I know Mike since he was five," Deaton replied, shifting the gear and taking the exit that would lead them to Beacon Hills. "And his parents even longer. And without Mike´s consent I won´t say more on the matter." His voice took a steely note at the end which Donna seemed to notice as for the rest of their drive she wouldn't ask any more questions.

* * *

"This is your hotel," Deaton said after he had parked the car in front of a quaint looking four-floor house that was painted in a light orange hue. A sign in front of it proclaimed it to be 'Beacon´s finest three stars hotel', something which probably wasn't that difficult to achieve seeing as it was one of the only two hotels in the whole county. Not many tourists strayed to the little town in northern California.

Harvey and Donna got out of the car, but Mike just kept sitting on his place.

"Mike?" Harvey spoke to him with a raised eyebrow and questioning tone. "How about you get out of that car?"

"I think it´d be better if I go with Deaton," Mike replied, his tone a little bit apologetic, even though there was nothing he had to be sorry for. "I should take a look at the problem he wants me to take care of."

"I see," Harvey replied with stony expression.

"When can we expect you back?" Donna interjected before Harvey could say anything else.

"Don´t know," Mike answered and shot a questioning look at Deaton.

"It shouldn't take longer than a few hours," the vet replied. "I´ll deliver Mike back safe and sound as soon as I´ll be able to."

"See that you do," Harvey glowered and slammed the door.

* * *

"'See that you do?'" Donna repeated incredulously as the car turned around the corner and vanished from their sight. "Can you get even more caveman?" She huffed and shuffled her suitcase behind her.

"I don´t know what you´re talking about," Harvey replied tensely. Donna just gave him an unimpressed look.

"Does it really come as such a big surprise to you that Mike had a life before you?" she asked. "That he has friends, that he knows people and has issues that doesn´t pertain you?" Harvey grinded his teeth because as always Donna guessed spot on.

"I don't like that he doesn't trust me," he replied. "Why won´t he tell us what he is here for?"

"Harvey," Donna started. "Even though you sometimes don´t seem to get it, Mike is a grown up man with a life outside of your office or the bullpen." She paused for a moment. "And isn´t it you who always tells him that he shouldn´t bother you with his private life?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you liked your life drama-free?" Harvey didn't reply.

"Now, enough of that chit-chat," Donna continued. "These shoes are murdering me. I need to freshen myself up before we go after that mysterious Peter Hale." And with that the lawyer and the secretary turned around and made their way towards the hotel.

* * *

Derek watched the group of teenagers standing around Deaton´s operation table, trying to be as blasé as possible, but failing big at it. It didn't matter if you face was composed or your hand´s steady and quiet when he could hear their hearts beating so fast as if they were about to burst. It didn't matter because he could smell the anxiety coming off them in waves. They were just teenagers, slave to their hormones, like he once had been.

No, he corrected himself, they weren't _just_ teenagers. They were survivors. They were _Pack_. And maybe that was what raised his instincts to top levels as they waited for the man – the _Mage_ – that Deaton said would help Stiles control his magic before it consumed him.

Derek didn't like Mages. He disliked magic in general. Too often he had seen what magic users where capable of. If you had the power to bend reality to your will, to snuff out lives with just a thought, you somehow lost the ability to appreciate those little things. Like the witches that had tried to kill him and Stiles both. Like Jennifer.

He was torn out of his thoughts by Stiles suddenly flailing around. He did that a lot, Derek thought. It was something so inherently Stiles that it made Derek want to smile at the younger boy´s antics. But he didn't. He didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.

"Can´t you even stay still?" he said instead.

"Dude," Stiles replied, drawing out the 'u' like he was performing a song. "I´m about to meet a Mage. Who´s gonna teach me to make Pizza appear out of thin air."

"You think he´s gonna do that?" Scott wanted to know with that wide puppy-eyes of his.

"Of course, Bro," Stiles replied and slung an arm around the other boy´s shoulders. "Just imagine it: We, the Xbox and Pizza whenever and however we want it at our disposal, thanks to my awesome abilities." While Stiles described the hypothetical situation, Scott nodded along furiously with a wistful glance in his eyes. Derek just supressed the urge to facepalm. His Pack really consisted of children.

"I don´t think that your first priority should be summoning Pizza," Lydia chimed in from where she was sitting on one of Deaton´s cabinets, looking as immaculate as ever. "There are more important things to learn."

 _At least one person who had her priorities straight_ , Derek thought.

"You dare to question the sanctity of Pizza?" Stiles exclaimed, his expression distorted into a mask of horror. "How could you?" Lydia just huffed and looked down on her nails, obviously done with the boy´s antics. Allison, sitting next to the other girl, just smiled and Derek didn't even bother to hide his eye-roll when he saw the dopey expression on Scott´s face. He and the Argent girl where on civil terms now, but that didn't make him disavow from his opinion that her and Scott´s relationship was a doomed one. But he kept that to himself.

"Where are Erica, Boyd and Isaac, though?" Stiles asked.

"Not here," Derek replied blandly. The stupid answer was well worth it, consisting the irritated twitch of Stiles' eyebrows.

"Obviously," Derek added. Stiles wanted to reply something, but it was at this exact moment that Derek could hear the humming of Deaton´s car.

"They´re coming," he said and the tension was instantly back. Derek could hear the car´s door shutting and the crunching of the gravel beneath two people´s feet.

"You are aware that there are people waiting for you?" a voice spoke. It wasn´t Deaton, so it must be the Mage he had contacted. He sounded young, Derek thought. Young and inexperienced.

"I thought so," was Deaton´s reply. "That will be Mr Stilinski and his friends. Nearly inseparable, those teenagers." An affirmative humming was the only reply the vet got before Derek could hear the door opening.

* * *

The man that entered with Deaton had a boyish charm, Allison supposed as she watched the blonde taking in the room and the people within it. He didn't look particular threatening, but neither did Allison herself and she could shoot pretty much anything, so that didn't say much. She couldn't discern what the man was thinking, his face a blank mask. The only emotion that she could see was the flash of rage that shot through the man´s eye as his gaze locked on Scott and Derek.

"Werewolves?" he hissed at Deaton. "Are you serious?!"

"They do come as package deal," Deaton replied.

"Woah, woah," Stiles chimed in. "Do you have anything against my friends?" And that was the Stiles Allison knew and valued. The one that would let no one utter even a bad word against his friends and those that he considered under his protection; the Stiles that would see the world burn just so to save those he held dear.

The stranger´s gaze turned towards Stiles.

"Against your friends? Nothing," he replied, carefully placing emphasis on each word. "Against their species and what it represents? Well, that´s another story."

"Well, I´d like to say that it was nice to meet you, but I was raised not to lie," Stiles hissed venomously. "It´s never nice to meet a prejudiced asshole." The Mage didn't seem to react to Stiles word.

"I came here as favour to Deaton," he started, "nothing more and nothing less. If you don´t want my help, feel free to refuse it, but be aware that it will sign your own death warrant."

"You can´t be the only to teach him," Lydia interrupted. "There have to be more mages than you in the States." Allison could feel her ire rise as well. She still may not be completely comfortable around werewolves, but she couldn't just stand in face of such prejudice without doing something. She wouldn't let it stand that someone insulted her friends.

"There are other mages, of course," the Mage chuckled. "But they won´t teach your friend."

"Why?" It was Scott who asked the question, the only person not looking like he wouldn´t gladly tear the Mage a new one.

"Because of the acquaintance he keeps," the Mage replied.

"That´s enough!" Silence fell over the whole room as Deaton´s voice boomed over them. Allison had never heard the vet even raise his voice, so it must be a truly serious situation that he would do so now.

"Michael," the vet said and turned towards the Mage. "I know you have your reason for your dislike against werewolves, but there´s a young boy here who could well die if you don´t help him." The Mage hung his head in shame. "And you, Mr Stilinski," Deaton continued. "Michael is right; you don´t have the luxury to reject the help he is offering." You could have heard a single hair falling to the ground, so silent the room had grown after Deaton´s rant.

"I´ll expect him tomorrow morning right here," the Mage said after a while. "Without any of his friends." He nodded shortly at Deaton before he turned around and headed out of the building.

"What´s his problem?" Stiles spat as the doors closed behind the Mage.

"It isn´t my story to tell," Deaton replied, having regained his sagely composure. "But Michael does have his reason for how he feels about werewolves." The vet paused for a moment. "After all he suffered greatly because of some of its specimen."

* * *

 **AN 2:** *badungdisch* so, why does Mike hate werewolves and why won´t other Mages help Stiles? What´s that great suffering Deaton´s talking about? Find out next!


	5. Revelation

The address where Peter Hale was supposed to live was a former factory building that had been converted into modern lofts. It seemed that the man liked to indulge in certain luxuries. Not that Harvey was one to talk, he had three bathrooms in his condo after all.

"Which apartment number was his?" Harvey asked his secretary who stood beside him.

"Eight," Donna answered without even bothering to look in her little notebook. Situations like this were why Harvey valued her so much. Other secretaries would have balked at all the things he demanded from them, but Donna didn't even roll her eyes.

"Then let´s stop wasting time," Harvey commented and they walked towards the building. The elevator´s doors looked like something had slashed through them like it was nothing more than paper. Yellow police tape was draped over the elevator´s door casing, some of it already torn down and laying on the ground. Apparently the police hadn't even bothered to put it down after they finished investigating whatever had happened in the building.

"The stairs it is, then," Harvey said.

"Doesn´t really look confidence inspiring, does it?" Donna commented as they made their way towards the stairs. "This whole town is just…weird." Harvey didn't reply at first, the only audible sound the clacking of Donna´s heels on the ground, but he had to agree with her. Something was definitely weird about Beacon Hills. Not just the cagey behaviour that Mike had adopted since they had entered the town. It was like something was watching them – nothing malicious, but nothing benevolent either – like the whole town was shrouded in otherworldliness. The sun was shining a little bit too bright, the colours were too colourful and the people looked at them like they were intruders; unwelcome.

He just nodded.

Finally, they were standing in front of the door to apartment number eight. Harvey was about to knock when the door was opened.

"Who are you?" The man standing in front of them had an impressive built, even Harvey had to admit that. His mint-green Henley clutched to his body and brought out his toned body. Yet the constant frown that marred the man´s face and the distrust that come off him in strong vibes lessened Harvey´s appreciation.

"Harvey Specter and Donna Paulsen from Pearson Specter Litt," he introduced and Donna to the man. "We are looking for Peter Hale." Even though Harvey thought it to be impossible, the frown on the man´s face deepened even more.

"Peter is…" the man started.

"…right here." Harvey and Donna turned around and saw another man slowly walking towards them, a bag filled with groceries in one hand while the other was tugged in his trousers. Harvey prided himself on his ability to read people and he instinctively knew that Peter Hale was a predator. Cunning, ruthless, Machiavellian. He grinned – a smile full of teeth – but it didn't reach his eyes. They stayed distrustful, watching, assessing.

"I´m Harvey Specter, this is…."

"…Donna Paulsen and you´re both from Pearson Specter Litt," Peter finished for him. He flashed Harvey another soulless grin. "Why don´t you come in? I´m very sorry for my nephew´s lacking manners." Said nephew looked like he wanted nothing more than to murder his uncle. Definitely some weird family dynamic.

If you had to describe the loft´s interior in one word, then Harvey would use 'empty'. 'Functional' would be a more flattering adjective, but Harvey wasn´t one to sugarcoat things – at least not to himself. The walls were neither painted nor hung with wallpapers, the living area consisted of only one couch garniture and a wooden table, there weren't any carpets. The big window that took the whole front of the loft was the only source of daylight, yet it also emphasized the emptiness of the whole room.

Harvey was sure that Donna had noticed as well, but neither he nor she would comment. He had seen more eccentric living choices in his career.

"I´d offer you something to drink, but I don´t think that you´ll be here long enough," Peter said casually as he closed the door behind them. "What does Jessica want from me?"

"She wants you to work for her," Harvey replied. If he judged Peter right – and he was nearly never wrong when it came to assessing people – then he wasn´t one who liked being on the receiving end of word plays.

"So, does she?" Peter said, raising one eyebrow. "Well, you can go back to her and tell her to kindly fuck off." If Harvey had been a lesser man his jaw would have dropped to the ground. So he just clenched his teeth, barely visible to anyone and let calmness wash over him. No matter what others said to you, you always had to keep the cool.

"That sounds pretty harsh," he said instead. Peter just grinned at him mirthlessly.

"Not as harsh as what she did to me," he simply stated. "Now, if you have nothing more to say, you may leave now." It was worded like a suggestion, but Harvey knew a command when he heard one and there was nothing left to gain by staying. He nodded politely at Peter and his nephew, turned around and walked out of the apartment, Donna following closely behind him.

"You´ll come back, won´t you?" Donna asked Harvey as they made their way downstairs.

"Of course," Harvey answered. "But first, Jessica and I will have a serious talk about disclosing important information."

Back in the apartment a delighted grin spread over Peter Hale´s face.

* * *

Mike didn't return back to their hotel until late evening. He roamed Beacon Hills, discovering its streets and its people. For a normal person the town may not look that different from thousand other American towns, but Mike wasn't normal by any sense of the word, so he could see behind the veneer. He could feel power flowing through the town – many different currents – that all coalesced somewhere in the Preserve that cut the town off from the outside world. Something terrible had to have happened there for even miles away Mike could feel malice oozing from the forest, like purulence from an infected wound. But it was old and slowly fading. Someone had taken care of it no so long ago.

The people that walked past him nodded and smiled. A small child – a girl of maybe four years – even walked up to him and shyly told him that he shone beautiful which made her mother splutter in embarrassment. Mike didn't mind, though. Some perceptive children were able to sense, sometimes even see, his magic and because Mike did not dabble in the darker aspect of the craft, to them it must look like some shiny light. Almost all adults had long lost their faith in magic, but they could still sense something from Mike which made them trust him more easily. And every now and then there were people who saw more.

Mike, though, nodded back politely and continued his walk through the city. Everything to not go back to their hotel and face the Harvey Inquisition, capital letter rightfully placed there. He just couldn't tell Harvey. The secret was too big – to alien, to deep-integrated into Mike´s life, too shattering – to just tell him. It was second nature for Mike to hide this part of him from the world and not even Harvey could so easily destroy what had been so deeply integrated in Mike´s life since childhood.

Not even Harvey.

* * *

"Where have you been?" That were the first words out of Harvey´s mouth when Mike did finally come back and entered the anteroom that connected their respective rooms. Donna sat next to him on the red couch, idly browsing through some magazine.

"Looking around town," Mike shrugged and hung up his coat.

"For five hours?" Harvey questioned. Mike sighed.

"Look, Harvey," he started. "Even if you believe different, I´m indeed a grown-up man and I´m not beholden to you when it comes to matters of my private life." Mike rubbed his temples. Fighting with Harvey was always very frustrating and deeply hurtful and he just couldn't deal with it right now. "I´m going to bed. Tomorrow I´m going back to help Deaton."

He walked over to his room´s door and was about to close it when – barely above a whisper – Harvey said: "You used to tell me everything."

Mike closed the door and tried to ignore the deep ache in his chest that felt like it was trying to make him explode. Harvey had sounded so small, so fragile – so broken and defeated – and Mike hated himself for being the one who had done that to Harvey.

 _Ignorance is a bliss_ , he chanted in his head.

Yet, as Mike laid in his bed, surrounded by darkness, staring at the blank ceiling, he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

* * *

 _Trees passing by in front of the window._

" _What did you learn this week?"_

 _The moon shining bright on the sky. The stars illuminating the night. No clouds._

 _Serenity._

" _We can´t give in, James."_

 _The cone of light illuminating the street in front of them. Tiny hands holding on to nothing. Road signs passing by._

 _Wilderness. Solitude._

 _Something on the street. A man. He didn't move._

" _Watch out, James!"_

 _A roar._

 _Crash. Shatter. Screams. Blood. He couldn't see anything. No light but the moon._

 _Something was stamping around the car. He could feel the vibrations._

 _Empty eyes staring at him._

 _Devoid._

 _Strands of hair, clumped with blood._

 _The thing kneeled down next to him. Red eyes. Compassionless. Pitiless. He could feel its breath ghosting over his tear soaked skin. Revulsion. He shuddered._

" _A warning." Then it opened its mouth full of fangs and lunged at him._

 _Scream. Pain._

With a scream tearing itself from his throat, Mike woke up, instantly bolting upright while breathing harshly. He looked around, still halfway caught between dream and reality and waited for the fangs to descend upon him.

Yet, as his eyes slowly got used to the half-darkness around him, there was no monster waiting to devour him. Just a standard hotel room, shrouded in grey, only the street lights outside that shone through the gaps in the shutters illuminating the room. It was eerily silent, as if time had been halted for everything except himself. Mike imagined himself wandering through a world where time no longer moved and shuddered. Not a pleasant thought, for sure.

When his heart rate had come down, he just let himself fall back and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep again. But the leaden tiredness that had tormented him yesterday just wouldn't come, instead he was hyperaware of everything around him. Now that he listened more closely he could hear that there was no absolute silence around him. In the distance was a car passing by, someone was hushing down the hallway and the air conditioning for the room bordering his was apparently in use, even though it wasn't that warm.

There was no true silence to be found amongst humanity.

But it was to these sounds that Mike finally fell asleep only a few minutes later.

* * *

Empty offices. It was night and the only source of light illuminating the hallways, cubicles and the empty receptionist desk came from the surrounding buildings. But there was one office where the light was still on, which only made the rest of the floor appearing even more desolate.

A phone was ringing. Once. Twice. Thri…

Someone picked up, their hand tightly griped around the small plastic body. "Hello?"

"We need to have a talk, Jessica."

* * *

"I don´t want to go," Stiles complained to his friends as they sat on the bleachers and let the sun shine on them. Well, Allison and Lydia were sunbathing, Scott was just here because of Allison and Isaac, Erica and Boyd were with them because they enjoyed Stiles' suffering. He was sure of it.

"If you can come up with a better alternative, feel free to share it with us," Lydia replied haughtily without even bothering to look at Stiles.

"You don´t wanna learn awesome magic from a not so awesome, prejudiced asshole?" Erica summarized his whole dilemma without looking that sympathizing with his plight. Stiles just nodded.

"That sucks," Isaac commented. "Like royally." Stiles just glared at him.

"Don´t you have to go if you want to make it in time?" Allison quipped up from behind her Ray Beans.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled. "But I don´t really wanna."

"Look, Stiles," Allison said. "You could work together with my father in the beginning when he was still like 'All werewolves are raging mutts that should be put down on sight'. If you survived that over months, you will survive a mage who´s gonna teach you magic for a few weeks." She smiled at him in her innocent, angelic way and Stiles knew that he was beaten.

He glared at Scott.

"Your girlfriend is the devil in disguise," he said, pointing accusingly at said girl who had returned back to just letting the sun shine on her. Scott just smiled stupidly and sighed.

Stiles gave up.

"Don´t forget that you have to tell us everything afterwards!" Erica shouted after him while he walked across the lacrosse field. "Maybe even before Derek kidnaps you into his lair to check if his precious Stiles has been harmed by the evil mage." She cackled. Stiles just flipped her his finger and was glad that they couldn't see the blush spreading on his cheeks.

* * *

The mage was already waiting for him when Stiles entered Deaton´s clinic. Stiles' mood instantly turned sour when he saw the blonde leaning on the operation table while he talked with Deaton. He hadn't forgot what had been said yesterday and if Stiles was anything then it was resentful when somebody dared to say something against his friends.

"Ah, Stiles, you´re here," Deaton stated the obvious.

"Yes, I´m here. Can we get started now?" Stiles cut in. He may have agreed to be here – more like being forced by the imminent threat of dying – but that didn't mean that he had to be nice about it. "For the matter, why is he the one who has to teach me? Aren´t there other mages who could do the job without the unfounded bigotry?"

"Mages don´t just grow on trees," the blonde – _Mike_ , Stiles' brain whispered to him – gritted out. "There aren´t that many in the States. Our kind is more common in Europe, India or East Asia."

"Who taught you then?" Stiles wanted to know. "If mages really are that rare around here?"

"It was a woman from California," Mike answered. "Claudia Stilinski was her name."

Stiles stopped breathing.


	6. Conversations

Empty offices. It was night and the only source of light illuminating the hallways, cubicles and the empty receptionist desk came from the surrounding buildings. But there was one office where the light was still on, which only made the rest of the floor appearing even more desolate.

A phone was ringing. Once. Twice. Thri…

Someone picked up, their hand tightly griped around the small plastic body. "Hello?"

"We need to have a talk, Jessica."

* * *

" _Peter, what are you doing here?" Jessica asked as she noticed the figure standing near her cubicle. When she noticed the expressionless mask he wore, her steps faltered – for a split second only, because she was Jessica Pearson and no man would make her misstep – but she continued onwards anyway._

" _Is something the matter?" she asked worriedly as Peter yet again failed to show any response to her words._

" _Why don't you tell me, Jessica," Peter replied and the way he said her name – full of disgust, hate and rage – made her flinch away from him._

" _I don't know what you´re talking about," she stammered and she hated herself – hated Peter – for making her look weak and feeble in front of the other man._

" _I´ve always been a fan of history," Peter remarked. "It´s truly fascinating, you know? How little things who people then thought would have no consequences affect us even today."_

" _Is there a point to any of this?" Jessica interrupted annoyed._

" _Oh, there sure is," Peter replied and his grin was full of teeth. "There is one family I took special interest in. They emigrated from France in the early 16_ _th_ _century to America. One day a member of said family came across a white field owner about to beat his black slave to death. The man intervened, cutting down the slave owner and thus saving the slave´s live. Filled with gratitude the slave – or rather former slave – pledged his life and the lives of his descendants to the man who had saved his life: Sebastian Argent. Over the centuries the former slave´s family name changed a lot, but it finally settled down on Pearson." Another mirthless grin. "Quite ironic how he exchanged one kind of slavery for another, don't you think?"_

" _Peter…" Jessica whispered, one single tear running down her face._

" _Don´t!" the other man snapped, his eyes flashing in an electric blue._

 _So beautiful, Jessica thought and she just wanted to reach out and touch him like she used to. But she didn't, because she knew that it would probably end with her dead on the ground._

" _You used me," Peter spit out. "You knew what I was – who I am – and you used me. Tell me, did Gerard set you on me? Or was it your own idea? Maybe he´ll give you a pat on the head if you come to him with enough information about the Hale Pack, like the good little slave you are."_

" _That´s not true!" Jessica protested. "I broke with that tradition long time ago. I´m beholden to no one but myself!" Peter snorted._

" _I don't believe you," he hissed. "In fact, I don't believe anything you´ve ever said to me." That sentence was like a blow into her gut._

" _I submitted my resignation today," Peter continued. "I´ll return to Beacon Hills and if I ever see you again, I´ll rip out your throat with my teeth." One last look at her – so full of contempt that it broke Jessica´s heart – and then Peter turned around and walked away._

 _Jessica was left standing there, alone, bereft, crying and wondered what she had done to deserve this._

* * *

The next time she heard about Peter was that his whole family had been killed by a fire that had consumed their whole house. Jessica didn't go to work that day, instead locking herself in her apartment, emptying a bottle of whiskey and toasting to Gerard Argent, the old bastard, for having whipped out yet another innocent family without leaving any trace leading back to him.

* * *

"It doesn't matter what happened," Jessica said. "It only matters that you get him to agree."

"I can´t do that if I don't know everything," Harvey shot back on the phone.

"What are you so fond of saying?" Jessica said. "'Don´t play the odds, play the man'? Well, then play him."

"Maybe if you weren't too cowardly to face him yourself, you would actually get him to agree," Harvey muttered.

"What did you just say?" Jessica dared Harvey to repeat his statement, her tone and her rage as cold as a blizzard.

"You´ve heard me," Harvey replied.

"For your sake I let that go this time," Jessica hissed over the phone. "Don´t come back until you´ve made him agree." Then, without waiting for Harvey to reply, she hung up on him and let out a resigned sigh.

She looked out of her office window, down on the busy streets of Manhattan. Sometimes…sometimes Jessica just wanted to lay down and never wake up. To just fall asleep and keep staying in her dreams where there was no adversity. But she opened her eyes every morning, ready to fight another day, because she was stronger than that. Maybe if she could finally face her regrets she would be able to find again the joy in the profession she once had felt, many years ago.

* * *

For a short moment Stiles couldn't breathe. He just stood there – frozen – and stared at the blonde like he had grown a second head. The man had known his mother. The familiar aching pain that accompanied every thought of her in Stiles' mind made itself known in his heart and he could feel his breathing quickening. He was hyper-aware; he could see every particle of dust floating in the air, he could sense every ray of light flooding in through the windows, could smell the odour of disinfect and animals that hung in the air.

Absentmindedly, Stiles noticed that his hands were shaking.

"Everything okay with you?" Mike´s face appeared in his field of vision. Worry shone in these cerulean orbs and Stiles hated them a little bit for making the bigoted man a little bit more likable. Stiles wanted to answer, but a memory pushed itself in front of his mind.

"You were there," he whispered. "At her funeral." Mike furrowed his brow in confusion.

"At whose funeral?" he asked confused.

"Claudia´s. My mother´s," Stiles replied. Mike´s eyes widened. "You were this lanky teenager in the last row with some old woman accompanying him…"

"Grammy," Mike remarked.

"…I know because I wondered who you were," Stiles continued, his eyes still fixed on Mike but his mind back on awful day. "I asked my dad, but he wouldn't answer."

' _Some people your mother knew_ ,' he had said. Stiles had wanted to prod further – everything to distract him from the pain, from the black casket displayed in front of the altar – but his father had just looked at him. ' _Not now, Stiles_ ,' he had begged his son, ' _please, son, not now._ ' And Stiles, seeing the indescribable pain in his father´s eyes hadn't asked any further.

"You´re her son?" Mike asked and Stiles just nodded, too afraid that his voice would fail him if he tried to talk now.

"Your mother taught me everything I know," Mike admitted softly.

"So, she was a mage as well?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Yes, she was," Mike answered. "Though, she wasn't very enthused about it. With power comes responsibility and she confided in my once that she hoped that any child of hers wouldn't have her gifts. Maybe that was why she never told you." Mike shrugged. "I was a child when she taught me. We weren't close. As close as teacher and student would get, but nothing more."

"Why didn't she heal herself?" Stiles asked. "When she got sick, why didn't she…?"

"Because her illness affected her mind," Mike replied. "The mind is a mirror of your soul. It contains everything you are – everything that makes you yourself – and only the darkest or the most powerful kind of magic can affect it. The former Claudia would have never resorted to and the latter wasn't available to her. Magic isn't the solution to everything. As unfair as that appears to be."

"How would you know?"

"Because," Mike replied, "I lost my parents as well. And like you I have asked myself why I couldn't have used magic to save them. Why I couldn't use magic to bring them back. I lived with my grandmother and when I reached my rebellious teenage phase I didn't spray graffiti or lifted shops, no –" he shook his head "- I dealt with shady figures of the supernatural world for books on necromancy and death magic. I owe it to my grandmother that it never went further than reading. She interceded in time. So, yes, I know what questions buzz through your mind."

Stiles contemplated the other man.

He would never be friends with Mike. He just couldn't muster any sympathy for the other mage´s prejudices against his friends. But his mother had been the one to teach Mike and this was one of the rare chances he had in his life to get to know a part of his mother´s life that he had never known even existed. Mike teaching him would be as if his mother was teaching him by proxy; it was a way for Stiles to have some form of connection to the woman that had departed his life too early and Stiles would do anything for such a chance.

"Why do you hate werewolves so much?" Stiles couldn't help but ask anyway.

"That´s not something that´s up for debate here," Mike grinded out. "I´m here to teach you how to control your magic, not to discuss the reasons for my likes and dislikes." But Stiles wouldn't – couldn't – let go. He needed to know.

"Half of my friends are werewolves," he shot back. "They´re the bravest, smartest and most loyal people I know. How can I trust you when you hate the people I love for reasons that aren´t their fault?"

"I don't hate werewolves," Mike replied and Stiles had to snort at that. "I despise them. I despise them for their inherent weakness that allows anyone stronger than them to just walk over them. I despise them for just rolling over for anyone who flashes their eyes red at them. I despise them for placing their biology over justice." He had become more agitated as he continued talking, his eyes flashing with fury.

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked.

"My parents…my parents were killed by an Alpha," Mike confessed. "And yet, when I appealed for justice there was none forthcoming from the werewolves. Because he was an Alpha and therefore someone worthy of respect – _of power_ – and only another Alpha willing to challenge him would be allowed to punish him." He laughed, a bitter, weary sound. "But there was no other Alpha near and so he continued to live his life undisturbed. All because the other werewolves were too weak to stand up for themselves." A burnt smell creeped into Stiles' nose and when he looked down he saw that the metal underneath Mike´s hand was smouldering. Apparently, recounting the reason for his dislike eroded his control over his powers.

"Not all werewolves are like that," Stiles replied.

"Really?" Mike snorted. "So, your friends wouldn't just roll over if their Alpha roared at them?" Stiles wanted to defend his friends, wanted to say that they weren't controlled by their biological imperatives, but he remembered how cowed Erica, Boyd and Isaac had been when Derek roared at them, his full Alpha authority on display or how Scott hadn't been able to control himself back when he had been first turned and Peter had set him on Stiles, Jackson and Lydia at school.

Yet, he knew that when it came down to something truly important, his friends would stand by his side, no matter what. They cared not for species, for eye colour or for power – in the end they were his friends first and werewolves second. But Mike seemed to take his silence as admission of guilt.

"See," he said, "I knew it."


	7. Circles

The mood was tense after that statement. Stiles was trying very hard to keep his emotions under control and to not blow up at that sanctimonious asshole standing in front of him while Mike wondered how he should teach the other boy when their difference of opinion set them against each other before they even had the chance to start.

"Follow me," Mike finally broke the silence.

"Where to?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Outside," Mike replied. "This –" he indicated towards Deaton´s surgery "– isn't really the place for what I´m about to tell you."

"There´s a little clearing a few minutes from here in the reservation," Deaton suddenly commented and Stiles nearly had a stroke from being surprised by the stealthy vet. "I think it offers the right atmosphere for Mr Stilinski´s first foray into magic." He kept his expression completely emotionless, but nevertheless Stiles had the feeling that it was more of an order than an advice.

"If you say so," Mike murmured. "You´re coming?" Stiles didn't reply, but he did follow the other male.

They spent the three minutes it took them to reach the clearing Deaton had described in silence, neither of them having anything to say to the other. The clearing itself wasn't that big, but it was lush and blotched with daisies, so that it nearly looked as if a blanket of snow had been draped over the grass.

"I don't think we should continue harking at each other because of our different opinions," Mike said after they both had found a comfortable spot to sit and Stiles didn't even bother to hide the ugly snort that made it out of his throat. Different opinion was a diplomatic way to express the irreconcilable differences between the two of them. Luckily, though, Stiles didn't need to become friends with the other; he just needed to get enough control and knowledge so that he wouldn't blow himself and his friends up the first time he would get a little emotional.

"Just teach me something," Stiles replied and Mike sighed. Then, composing himself, he straightened his posture and started talking:

"As Deaton probably told you already the difference between a spark and a mage is that a mage attains his power by absorbing the very energy around him and using his mind to give this directionless energy a purpose." Stiles nodded. Deaton had already told him that much. "Every living being generates energy. An animal more than a plant, humans more than animals. Some scholars think it´s because humans are more 'alive' than animals, other postulate that it is linked to the amount of creativity an individual exhibits. Another factor is age: The Amazonas and its thousands of years old eco-system generate more energy than a two-hundred-years old Midwestern town in the US. Beacon Hill is quite the exception to that; it´s probably got to do something with the Hales and their century old patronage over these lands."

"That´s also the main reason why you mainly find mages in big cities or old ecosystems," Mike continued. "Every act of magic requires a proportional amount of energy. If I let a pebble float in New York it is a barely noticeable strain on my stamina as the energy is replaced so fast by the city´s population that my mind has barely time to register that there is an exchange of energy at all. On the other side if I did the same thing in a low-energy area it would physical weaken me because the energy needs to be taken from a wider area which is more taxing on mind and body alike."

"That sounds like the system from Eragon," Stiles pointed out and Mike had to smile at that comparison.

"I suppose they have some similarities," he admitted. "Maybe the author is a mage or knows one?"

"So, do I die when I cast magic that requires more energy than what is available to me?" Stiles wanted to know.

"No," Mike replied. "Even worse." He swallowed. "The area from which you can siphon energy is defined by how wide you can cast your consciousness." Seeing Stiles' confused expression Mike elaborated further. "Imagine it like a circle you cast around yourself, an extension of your mind. Should the energy within this circle not be enough for your spell then your mind – desperately trying to keep itself alive –will widen itself more and more to fuel your magic and if you´re unlucky it breaks under the strain, shattering into thousand pieces."

"What happens to the person itself?" Stiles asked uneasily.

"Their mind has been shattered outside their body," Mike replied. "There is barely enough left of that person for the body to continue just breathing. They spend the rest of their lives – if you can call it that – as empty shells until their bodies finally give out. I´ve never seen it but I imagine it to be something akin to how the Dementor´s Kiss is described. An Un-life." Mike shuddered. "That´s why it is so important for mages to know their limits."

"How do I know if my strength is enough for a spell?" Stiles wondered.

"Experience," Mike answered. "I know, it´s a stupid answer and one you don't want to hear as teenager – I certainly didn't either – but it depends on so many different variables that you can´t give a serious estimation."

"How far can you _expand your mind?"_ Stiles asked curiously.

"I´m a little bit of an anomaly," Mike replied. "I don't know if I have my eidetic memory because of how much energy I can process or the other way around, but I can cast my mind over the whole of Manhattan and the Southern Bronx." Stiles' eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets at that.

"Wow," he exclaimed. "That is much, isn't it?" He swallowed and scratched his neck. "Do you…do you know how wide my…my mother could cast her mind?"

"No," Mike answered. "And you should never ask another mage that question either. It´s considered very, very bad manners. Like asking a stranger about the length of his penis." Stiles could feel his cheeks heat up and Mike let out a laughter as he saw the discomfort on the teen's face. Then his expression turned serious again.

"Of course, there are ways to compensate a small Circle, but most of them belong firmly in the category of black magic," Mike explained.

"What?" Stiles asked, completely banned by what the other man was telling him.

"I´ve never seen it myself and neither have the people I know, but theoretically it´s possible to take all the energy a living being possesses for yourself. Instead of absorbing the excess energy, like a mage usually does, this hypothetical black magician directly taps into the energy reservoir of others and drains them dry," Mike told Stiles and the teen had to supress a shudder at hearing something so _vile_.

"Why would anyone do something like that?" he asked aghast.

"It´s faster," Mike answered. "And it gives you more energy. But you don't have to worry, there´s currently not a single black magician I know of. And believe me, such things would be noticed in a small community such as ours."

Mike said nothing after that, instead fidgeting with a daisy he had picked from the meadow while he had talked. Suddenly, petal after petal began to break away from the flower and started to slowly float into the air, performing a merry dance on their way upwards. More and more petals from the flowers around them began to join the others and soon there was a cloud of daisy petals flying above them.

At first there was no order to their chaos, but slowly Stiles recognised that some sort of patterns were formed right in front of him. Faster and faster the petals spun around them and then suddenly they coalesced into the form of a woman, standing right in front of them.

"Who´s that?" Stiles asked in awe.

"An old friend of mine," Mike smiled. "I called her. Her name is Aurai, a nymph of the breeze."

 _A new mage is introduced to the world´s currents?_ a voice intoned in Stile´s mind. It sounded old and wise, but also playful and carefree.

"That´s Stiles," Mike introduced him and Stiles gave the nymph an awkward wave with his hand, not really knowing what the etiquette for a first meeting with a disembodied spirit of the air was exactly. Aurai turned towards him, some of the petals of her form floating around Stiles' head, like some kind of halo.

 _He is free and wild_ , Aurai said, _unbound. Under the patronage of Mother Air his powers will evolve._

"You can tell?" Mike asked.

 _I am a spirit of air and mind_ , Aurei spoke, turning back to Mike. _There is naught that escapes my perception. Teach him well, Michael, for his potential is as vast as yours, especially once he joins with the earthbound one._ And then her body dissolved, the petals falling to the ground.

Stiles stared at the space where the nymph had been just mere moments before with his mouth wide open.

"What the actual fuck did just happen?" he finally spluttered when he had regained his bearings. "What did she mean with 'patronage of Mother Air' and who the hell is 'the earthbound one'?"

"Aurai has always been one to talk in riddles," Mike answered. "Has been since the first time I´ve accidently summoned her when I was sixteen." A wistful smile formed on his face as if he was remembering said occurrence. "But she often offers useful insights, even if it sometimes takes some time for one to decipher them."

"As to what she meant? Usually, a mage has an element to which he feels a strong connection to, depending on your character. Air is usually for people that don´t really fit into social roles, wild, unbound, free, taking fancy to things fast, yet easily distracted, but not when it comes to things or people they deem important to them." Stiles didn't feel to point out that that description fit him down to a tee. "What she meant with 'earthbound one' I have no idea." He shrugged.

"What´s your element?" Stiles asked Mike instead. "And what does it mean exactly?"

"Only that magic involving your element is easier to evoke for you than other element´s," Mike answered. "As to my element? It´s fire." Stiles looked at Mike puzzled what lead to the other man continuing. "I´m a very emotional and passionate person. Once I invest myself into something I won´t let go and burn through every obstacle in my way. It has its advantages and disadvantages, like every other element does at well."

Mike looked at his watch and let out a curse that definitely sounded like 'Harvey'. "We need to wrap this up. This whole thing has taken longer than I expected."

"Wait!" Stiles exclaimed. "But we didn't do any magic at all!" He hated how whiny he sounded, but it had been the prospect of actually doing some magic that had made him come to Mike after all.

"You´ve just got dumped with so much information that allowing you to perform any magic would be gross negligence on my side," Mike replied and – _oh God_ – Stiles remembered that he was a lawyer. "Go home, try to sort everything and when your mind isn't bursting from so much input like it is now, I´ll show you some real magic."

Stiles wanted to protest, but Mike was right as much as he hated to admit it. His mind was buzzing with the new information he had just received and Stiles just knew that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything at all. So he let out a theatrical sigh and let his shoulders slump in defeat.

"Alright," he conceded. "See you tomorrow." He nodded at Mike – who nodded back – and turned around.

Stiles had to admit that he could like Mike if there wasn't his disgust towards werewolves. And Stiles couldn't tolerate prejudice, no matter how well some persons could justify it. Because justifiable it never was, at least in Stiles' opinion. And that was the problem, wasn´t it? Mike was a nice and relatable guy, but whenever werewolves were mentioned his bias reared its ugly head and Stiles couldn't like – couldn't want to like – someone who held such believes.

He had to do something.

And then – walking down the path towards Beacon Hill – Stiles Stilinski broke out in a wide grin. He would just show Mike how wrong he was in his beliefs. After all, Stiles had made Derek smile a few times, so how difficult could it be to make Mike see that werewolves weren't so bad as he believed?


	8. Night

**AN:** So, it´s been nearly a year and I´m really sorry for that (/.\\) there were just so many other projects and plot bunnies I took fancy to. But I´m back again, even though I don´t know when the next chapter will come.

* * *

Much to Stiles' surprise, his father was already home when Stiles pulled up in front of their garage. Usually his dad was always working until late, the supernatural nature of Beacon Hills ensuring that there was always a weird case to solve or some creepy deaths to conceal from higher authorities. But when Stiles opened the door and entered the living area, his dad was already sitting at the table, newspaper spread in front of him while he held a beer in the other. He was wearing his reading glasses; Stiles couldn't remember the last time he used them. When he heard Stiles, he looked up and regarded his son over the rim of his glasses.

"Heyah, dad," Stiles greeted him, waving lazily. He pulled one chair out and sat down on it, continuing to nervously fidget with is fingers.

"How was your first magic lesson?" his father asked, newspaper now completely disregarded as all his attention was focused on Stiles. Stiles shrugged.

"Theoretical," he replied nonchalantly. "I wasn't allowed to do anything practical." From the expression that his father unsuccessfully tried to hide he apparently didn't think that Stiles not being allowed to do magic was a bad thing. On the contrary. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the Sheriff, but his father just shrugged at him. "I met a nymph."

"A nymph?" his father chorused.

"Yeah," Stiles spoke. "She was pretty chill and spoke some riddles, but otherwise, not much." He grabbed a granola bar from the bowl on the table and began to munch on it. "Tomorrow, we´ll continue."

"I hope your school work won´t suffer," his dad warned him.

"Dad," Stiles rolled his eyes. "Literally having an evil Druid and a Pack of megalomaniac Alpha werewolves didn't affect my GPA, so why should a few magic lessons in a serene clearing in the Preserve do it?" He arched his eyebrows at his father who just took a sip from his beer.

"Did you know?" Stiles finally spoke.

"Did I know what?" his father asked.

"About…mom," Stiles added, the words laying heavy on his tongue. "That she had magic. That she was the one who taught Mike." When he saw his father´s questioning stare, he added: "The mage teaching me."

His father sighed and rubbed his temple. Suddenly, he looked ten years older, as if just the mention of Stiles' mother had added another burden on his shoulder. Any mention of her did that, really, because neither of the Stilinski men was really good at dealing with emotions and repressing something only worked as long as no one mentioned it.

"I remember that Mike was at her funeral," Stiles continued. "With his grandmother. When I asked you about it, you told me that they were some people mom used to know." He stared at his father. "So you must have known; a little bit at least."

"I did," the Sheriff confessed. "When…when your mother and I were engaged, she showed me. I was shocked at first – who wouldn't be if he was shown that magic was real – but she was always uncomfortable around it; she didn't even want me to mention it. It was one of the few things she never explained to me." He paused for a moment and in his father´s gaze Stiles could see the same wistfulness that filled him, too, whenever he thought about his mother. "When you were born, I asked her about it again, but she just brushed me off. Told me that we´d cross that bridge when you showed some sign of actually having magic."

"So she never wanted me to have magic?" Stiles asked despondently. When he had learned that his mother, too, had possessed magic he had thought that magic would finally be something that he would have to feel nearer to his mother, to be able to connect to her. He had been thinking about what spells she had used, what things she had conjured and he had planned to do all of them, too, because it would be a small opportunity to connect with the woman that had left his life much too early and whom he still missed so much. But now, hearing that his mother had never intended for him to have this ability – that she even abhorred it – sowed doubts in Stiles mind and some twisted kind of shame. The only thing his mother had wanted was for him to be born without magic and not even that he had managed.

"I think she thought that your life would be easier if you didn't," his father replied. "I never asked, but I believe that with her magic came expectations from her family and society that she didn't want to fulfil. That she didn't want to fall on you, either." His expression softened. "But magic or no magic she would have always loved you the same, you know that."

"Yeah," Stiles replied. He couldn't say more, too afraid that he would break out in tears if he spent one more thought about how much his mother had loved him – and didn't anymore. "I´m gonna get to my room and read something." It was better that way. Every time they talked about his mother and got sentimental, they would need their own space to work through their emotions and Stiles could already see how much this talk had drained his father emotionally.

On the first step, he turned around one last time.

"Thanks dad," he spoke. "For telling me."

"You´re welcome, son."

* * *

Harvey and Donna were sitting in the lobby when Mike entered their hotel. Harvey was perusing the Wall Street Journal while Donna browsed through the newest National Geographic. Even though it was already evening, none of them had bothered to don something casual: Harvey was still wearing a suit – three-piece, charcoal, silver tie – while Donna was wearing a skin-tight black dress with dangerous high heels. Wearing just a blue shirt and some jeans, Mike definitely felt underdressed in the presence of his two friends.

"And the prodigal son returns," Donna remarked without looking up from her magazine. With a dramatic sigh, Mike slouched down in the third chair around their table, throwing his head back and just staring at the ceiling.

"Tired?" Harvey spoke up from behind his newspaper. "What did you do the whole day anyway?" Mike groaned in annoyance. Apparently, Harvey hadn't given up on getting any information about what he was doing in Beacon Hills out of him.

"I´m helping the son of a friend," he replied. He stared straight at Harvey who had lowered the newspaper on his lap. "He´s lost his mother and I knew her, so…" He shrugged, satisfied that Harvey wouldn't pursue the issue any further. Harvey didn't like to talk about dead parents and wouldn't even touch the topic with a ten-foot pole.

"How was your day?" Mike asked instead, trying to steer their talk away from any supernatural-related topic. "Did you make any headway?" Now it was Harvey and Donna´s turn to let out frustrated sighs.

"He was not very receptive," Harvey told Mike.

"He said – and I quote – that Jessica could fuck off and then threw us out of his loft," Donna added bluntly. Mike winced.

"So, how are you gonna convince him to work for Jessica?" he asked. Harvey´s expression turned into a mixture between anger and constipation. If Mike was honest – which he always was, thank you very much – then it looked quite funny.

"Tomorrow Donna and I´ll hit the library for some fact finding," Harvey explained. "Jessica threw us into cold water; we have nothing on Peter Hale but the fact that he went to Harvard with her. We need to find something to leverage against him." Donna rolled her eyes, but didn't add anything.

"See," Mike beamed at Harvey. "That´s the Harvey we all know and love."

* * *

Dinner at the Argent household wasn't a very joyous affair.

It had been once, before Allison had been made aware of the supernatural nature of the world around her and her family especially. Her mother would make dishes from all around the world because in her opinion, if you couldn't visit all those places then you could at least make them come to you via their food. Allison had been in France, Italy, Spain, Thailand, China and many more and every single of them had been a tasty adventure.

They would chat amicably during the whole dinner. Allison would tell her parents about school and her archery lessons and her parents would regard her with tales from their respective jobs. Allison never had that many friends and during that one hour with her parents that hadn't really mattered. In hindsight, Allison supposed, it had been all a big lie.

Ever since her mother had died – killed herself for something as arbitrary as becoming a werewolf – there was only silence at the Argent´s dining table. Allison still hadn't forgiven her mother for leaving her like this. There was this untameable anger within her, about her mother deciding that her stupid Hunter Code had been more important than her own daughter. Instead of facing her changed circumstances, instead of being there for Allison, her mother had taken the easy way out. Her prejudices and hate had been stronger than her love for Allison and every now and then when night fell and Allison laid in her bed, alone, she allowed herself to cry and asked herself why her mother hadn't loved her enough to live for her.

Her father approved of his mother´s choice and that was where most of their fights originated from. That and Allison´s continued relationship with Scott. Her father just couldn't understand that she didn't abandon her family and its legacy for a werewolf, couldn't see that it wasn't an either/or decision, but that she could be both an Argent hunter and Scott´s girlfriend without one of the two consuming the other. He may be civil to Scott and the rest of the Pack now, but deep down Allison knew that he was just waiting for them to step out of line and for that she resented him.

And that was why when they had dinner these days – either cheap take-out or a pathetic attempt at cooking by either Allison or her father – there was only awkward silence between them. Sometimes they tried to feign talking with each other, but Allison didn't care for her father´s job _(hunting, it had always been hunting, had always been a lie)_ and her father didn't want to hear about what she did when it involved someone from the Pack.

They were so fucked up.

And yet they continued with this routine of torture. Maybe it was because both of them still clung to the spectre of Allison´s dead mother that hung over them like an oppressive cloud of thunder. Maybe because they both still hoped that by forcing themselves to go through the motions their broken family would become whole again. Allison didn't know and had often sworn that she would stop, but every day she found herself sitting opposite of her father again.

"How´s school?" her father asked and Allison had to supress the urge to just roll her eyes at him. He always started with that particular question, probably because it was the only safe choice amidst the minefield that was any other topic.

"Okay," Allison replied, like every time. "Maths is kicking my ass again, but Lydia´s agreed to tutor me, so that I´ll pass the class."

"That´s nice of her," her father commented.

"Well, she´s my friend, after all," Allison pointed out. Inwardly she steeled herself. "By the way, I was told by Deaton that I should give you notice about a paragraph 36 issue?" The last few words were spoken as a question. Her father´s eyebrows rose in surprise.

"A mage is here?" he asked worried.

"Yeah," Allison confirmed. "What does 'paragraph 36' mean?"

"What´s his name?" her father demanded to know, completely ignoring her own question. Allison knew that if she wanted to get any information out of her dad she needed to answer his questions first, so she said: "Mike Ross." The expression on her father´s face fell.

"You know him?"

"I know of him," he replied, rubbing his temples. "He once cursed a whole werewolf pack into extinction."


	9. Library

The library of Beacon Hills was housed in one of the town´s older buildings near the High School. Its whole clinker façade was covered by ivy which gave the building a kind of fairy tale charm, as if behind its doors secrets of magic and other wonders awaited the curious visitor. The many young students that frequented the building didn't seem to care much for its odd charm, though, laughing and rough housing on its steps and generally acting as if they didn't have a single care in the world.

 _Ah, the follies of youth_ , Donna thought as she watched the teenagers around her. They sat together in groups, pretending to study the books in front of them, but it would only need the smallest of distraction to have them look up and start talking. Maybe the students who actually did want to study were inside the building instead of lounging outside on the grass.

She and Harvey didn't really fit with the crowd, though; he wearing another suit (this time only two pieces and he had even left the tie at the hotel) and she with a blood-red costume and high-heels in matching colour. They looked like money and the people around them steered clear of them accordingly. If she had known that they wouldn't here for their usual business, Donna would have packed more casual clothes, but sadly her foresight had failed her.

"Aren´t there any people around here who are over eighteen?" Harvey asked, disdain clear in his voice as they made their way up the stairs that led to the big portal doors.

"It´s 11am on a weekday," Donna pointed out. "Everyone above eighteen either has a job or no interest in books." She forgave Harvey his foul mood for she knew where it stemmed from: Mike had again weaselled himself out of coming with them, instead going to the same 'friend' he had spent his time with yesterday and the day before.

She also knew that Harvey disliked Mike´s actions not because he needed someone who could 'read those goddamn newspapers, so that I don´t have to' but because he wasn't used to Mike not putting Harvey and his needs first. Maybe she was a little bit unfair, Donna conceded, because Harvey would move heaven and earth to help Mike, but usually Harvey led and Mike followed – sometimes with loud grumbling, but in the end he always followed. But ever since they had arrived in Beacon Hills Mike seemed to have grown – not a backbone, because when push came to shove he always had one – but rather a kind of resistance to Harvey and his commands. And Harvey didn't quite know how to deal with that.

And there was also the crush he nursed for Mike to consider, but that was obvious, at least to Donna (she also suspected that Jessica knew and if Harvey and Mike continued like that Louis would soon know, as well).

They stepped inside and entered a wide hall that was filled with shelves. Quite a few reading tables stood in front of a wide staircase that led up to a gallery from which you could overlook the whole main floor. People, mostly students, were milling around, carrying books and school stuff all under the watchful eyes of the librarians, a bunch of middle aged women and one man who sat behind a wooden counter to their left.

"What do you want us searching for?" Donna asked, pulling back her sunglasses so that she could use them as hairband.

"Anything that helps us getting information on Peter Hale," Harvey replied. "Stuff that helps us closing the case Jessica gave us."

"Very specific," Donna replied sarcastically. "Well, I guess it´s the newspapers then." The newspapers were upstairs on the gallery, so she and Harvey took the steps – evading trampling teenagers that weren't looking where they were going – and started with the editions from the last two years.

It was boring and repetitive work. Beacon Hills had barely 50 thousand inhabitants, so there wasn't really much happening and if there was the local newspaper seemed to have made it its mission to report it in the blandest way possible. Donna went through three lists of garden gnome competition winners and an incident of indecent exposure during the local fall festival before she gave up exasperated.

"You!" she shouted, pointing at a barely older than twelve looking boy who looked at her like the devil in person had appeared in front of him. "What´s your name?"

"Liam, mam," the boy answered, gulping nervously. Donna grinned.

"Does the name Peter Hale ring any bells?" she asked. The boy swallowed again before he replied.

"He´s one of the last remaining Hale family members," he told her. "It was a big thing a while back: Apparently Kate Argent burnt down their whole house while the Hales were still in it and killed everyone except him and two others – I think their names were Derek and Laura." Donna beckoned for him to continue. "He was in a coma for years, but he woke up a while ago and now you see him in town sometimes."

"You´ve been very helpful, Liam," Donna told the boy. She fished a ten Dollar note out of her purse and handed it over the boy who took it with wide eyes. "Buy yourself some ice cream or whatever twelve-year-olds eat today." She turned around and walked towards Harvey.

"I´m sixteen!" the boy called after her, his voice full of indignation. Donna just laughed.

"I´ve got something," Donna told her boss, who was just leaning against the shelf with his eyebrows raised at her. Bemused, Donna noticed a few girls a few rows behind Harvey giggling nervously whenever they looked at the man.

"I´ve heard what the boy told you," Harvey replied. "No need to repeat all of it."

"So, what´s our next step then?" Donna asked.

"Well, while you went and scared a boy into nearly wetting himself, I did a little bit of searching and read up on the Hale family in the older newspaper issues," Harvey told her as they made their way downstairs. "Seems that the family was really rich and lived secluded in the preserve that surrounds the town. They were the town´s philanthropists and when they were killed a lot of money that kept the town running dried up."

"But of what use is all that?" Donna wanted to know. "We´re no step closer to actually get Hale to agree to Jessica´s proposal!"

"We need a grasp on his personality before we continue," Harvey replied. "Next stop is the police station."

"They won´t just hand us over the police report," Donna remarked.

"When did that ever stop us?" Harvey pointed out. They were about to leave when one of the librarians – an already greyed lady with red-rimmed glasses that made her eyes look like a bug – stepped in front of them with a big smile on her face.

"Excuse me," she interrupted them. "But we were wondering –" she pointed to the other librarians who were all staring at them as if they were the main attraction of the zoo or something "- what brings you to Beacon Hills. It´s not often that we get such well-dressed visitors around here." Next to her Harvey put on his brightest client smile.

"Actually, we´re from New York," he told the women.

"New York!?" the woman exclaimed in awe. "That must be such a special place to live in." Donna suppressed a snort. Try taking the subway during summer or winter…or practically any time and you wouldn't be so easy to impress.

"It is," Harvey agreed with her. "But we really need to get going. We´re doing some time sensitive work for the law firm we´re working at."

"Oh, the sister of my cousin´s wife works at a law firm, too," the woman added, apparently in no hurry to let them go. "Which firm are you working at?"

"Pearson Specter Litt," Harvey replied. "Excuse us, but we really need to go."

"Pearson as in Jessica Pearson?" the woman called after them, stopping them in their tracks.

"Yes," Harvey answered confused.

"How´s dear Jessica doing?"

* * *

Derek didn't know why all underaged members of the Pack (which was practically everyone except him) had found themselves in his loft. Erica, Boyd and Isaac were lounging on his couch, Lydia and Allison were standing behind the kitchen counter while Jackson leaned against the wall and Scott had draped himself over one of Derek´s chair.

Derek was well aware that he wasn't approachable and that their pack dynamic wasn't the healthiest one. Boyd and Erica hovered at the edge of the pack, never really interacting with anyone besides Derek and Isaac every now and then. Isaac was torn between his loyalties to Scott and Derek whenever the two of them argued. Jackson was only here because he wouldn't survive as omega and Allison and Lydia came with their respective boyfriends. And Scott was only here because of Stiles.

The hardships they had endured had bonded them together, but they were more like the broken fragments of a mirror forced back into its frame, not really fitting together, sometimes even cutting into each other.

Derek knew that he was the odd one out. He was too old, too jaded, too broken to connect to these teenagers who may have had their fair share of grief but had never really experienced the loss he had.

Stiles somehow managed to make them work, though. Scott followed wherever his friend went, Lydia respected him and had forged a strong friendship with him and the 'Trio Terrible' (Stiles' name for them, not Derek´s) trusted him as well. He managed to smooth their hard edges; managed to make them work together, his way with words moving them forward instead of back.

So, no Derek didn't get it why everyone would be here, not when Stiles was not with them.

"Why are you all here?" he finally asked. That was another of his failures: Unlike Stiles, he didn't know how to use his words. It should be a normal question, but it came out as a gruff accusation, as if he didn't want them to be here (he wanted it, though, because he hated the emptiness and silence that came whenever the last of them had left after pack meetings).

"This is the only place where we can meet without parental supervision that´s also got a filled fridge," Lydia answered as if it should be obvious. She did that often; making others think they were stupid for asking simple questions. "You´re the only guy I know who´s got tofu and avocado."

"Scott´s fridge is a sad, sad thing," Allison added as Scott let out a dismayed "Hey!"

"Scott, last time you didn't even have milk and butter," Allison reminded him. "And you asked me if avocados were those 'hairy, green things'." Everyone shook their head in laughter.

"Where´s Stiles?" Isaac suddenly spoke up.

"Where he´s been the last few times," Lydia replied. "Magical training or however you want to call it."

An annoyed twinge shot through Derek´s mind. He could barely suppress his eyes flashing red when Lydia mentioned where Stiles was. He didn't like the mage who taught Stiles; not only because of his obvious dislike for werewolves, but also because he was an outsider whose motives and agenda they didn't know. Whenever new faces had come to Beacon Hills it had only meant trouble for them; who was to say that this Mike was any different.

But if he was honest with himself, it was also because Mike was able to show Stiles sides of the supernatural world that Derek would have never been able to show him. Derek had enjoyed his and Stiles talks about werewolves and other species, about magical theories and histories. It had made Derek feel like he was actually good at something, teaching a young mind, but over the last days Derek´s phone stayed silent while Stiles took his questions and went to the mage instead.

He felt useless again.

"I had a talk with my father yesterday," Allison spoke up, visibly looking uncomfortable as she brought the topic up. Suddenly everyone´s attention was focused on her. "He knew of Mike."

"What did he know?" Scott wanted to know.

"Well, it was quite a few years ago, Dad was still an apprentice then," Allison started. Derek looked at her, his expression bereft of any sign of emotion. "Mike accused an East Coast Alpha of murdering his parents, which the Alpha of course denied. There wasn´t enough evidence, so the Tribunal didn't find him guilty. A week later the whole pack had vanished. No one knew what had happened to them, but later there were reports of a pack of wolves haunting the forests around the town where most of the pack had lived."

"He turned them into real wolves?" Erica spoke from where she was sitting on the couch. Allison shook her head.

"He was only eleven back then," Allison. "My dad said he couldn't have been powerful enough back then, but there was no other mage around who could have. They called a mage from Toronto but she couldn't break the curse. Some human pack members who weren't affected by the curse tried to accuse Mike, but there was not enough proof."

"Poetic symmetry," Lydia remarked. "Not enough proof to punish the Alpha and not enough to punish the mage."

"And that´s the guy who´s teaching Stiles?" Derek asked. Allison shrugged.

"It could never be proven," she replied. "It´s all just rumours."

"I don´t like it," Derek grinded out. If all of this was true then the mage was far too dangerous to be allowed near them. Especially Stiles.

"Well, it´s not as if we´ve got a choice," Lydia remarked. Derek ignored the knowing gaze she sent towards him.

She knew nothing, even though she was right.


	10. Coffee

"You know Jessica?" Harvey asked, momentarily perplexed by the unexpected turn of events. Their stay in this town turned weirder and weirder with every minute, revelations turning up faster than bodies in a slasher horror movie.

Next to him Donna had managed to school her expression faster than him, looking again like the professional executive assistant she was.

"Of course I do," the librarian confirmed, a wide smile on her face. "Mind you, not that well – we´ve last seen her a year ago – but she´s not a person you´re likely to forget."

"No, that´s for sure," Harvey agreed nonchalantly. An idea forming in his mind, he put on his most charming smile that had seen even the iciest Manhattan socialites melt like ice under the summer sun and turned his whole attention on the librarian: "Would you mind accompanying me and Donna for a cup of coffee? It´s so rare to randomly run into a friend of Jessica´s."

Calling her a 'friend of Jessica' was obviously quite a stretch, but one thing Harvey had learned in his time as lawyer was that everyone liked it when others overplayed their importance and was more agreeable if the right amount of flattery was involved.

"It is, indeed," Donna agreed, playing into his ruse like she always did. They were a well-oiled machine, after all. "It´s a shame that Jessica never told us about you."

"Oh, well, if you insist," the woman fake-laughed. "I´ll just tell Brianna that I´ll be gone for a while. I know a nice little place around the corner. It serves the best coffee in all of Beacon Hills." Harvey doubted that, but he just continued to smile while the woman walked into the backroom, probably bragging to her colleagues, because nothing exciting ever happened here otherwise.

"What are you doing, Harvey?" Donna whispered at him furiously.

"I invited an 'friend of Jessica's' out for coffee," Harvey replied, his expression full of mock-innocence.

"How´s that helping?" Donna wanted to know.

"Jessica´s keeping stuff from me," Harvey answered. "And I dislike when things are kept from me. If Jessica doesn´t want to tell, then I´ll find out myself."

"On your head it´ll be," Donna retorted, but then the librarian came back and they had to stop their conversation.

"I´m ready," she proclaimed.

"Then lead the way," Harvey spoke and like the gentleman he was he held open the doors for her and Donna.

"Oh, it´s really embarrassing, but in all that rush we completely forgot to ask you for your name," Donna started, acting as if it was really something that weighted on her mind.

"Don´t worry," the librarian replied. "I´m Hedwig Crowe and I´ve been a librarian for nearly forty years by now." Harvey didn't really know what that information got to do with her name, but he wisely refrained from pointing that out.

Donna and Hedwig continued their small talk, with Harvey occasionally throwing in his own comments, until they reached a small coffee shop only a few streets away from the library. Thankfully, due to the good weather, there weren´t many students inside and so they were able to get one of the tables near one of the two big window fronts from where you could overlook the whole street. They placed their orders with the waitress – a young girl, probably a student earning herself some extra cash working here – and then Harvey started his interrogation. Not that Hedwig knew that it was one.

"So, Hedwig," Harvey started, "how do you know dear Jessica? I mean, you live on opposite sides of the country, after all."

"I first met Jessica at the Hale´s funeral," Hedwig began telling, her expression turning sombre when she was reminded of that joyless affair. "A dreadful business I tell you." She sighed. "I won´t bother you with details, but it was a big thing back then. Only three survivors, Laura and Derek Hale and their uncle Peter." Harvey perked up when that name was mentioned.

"Peter used to – and still does – donate to the library. He´s the main reason why we´re still running, to be honest. But after the Hale tragedy there were some far-removed relatives who tried to cash in on the Hales demise and even went after Peter´s donations, even though the man was still alive!" Hedwig´s hands started to shake in barely constrained fury. Apparently, the whole thing still managed to evoke such strong emotions in her.

"Jessica helped us to fight them off and secure Peter´s donations," Hedwig continued. "Pro bono. Apparently, books and libraries, especially, were very important to Peter. I can only agree; he came nearly every day when he was still a child and kept coming even as an adult." They were interrupted by their waitress bringing them the beverages they had ordered. Hedwig took a sip from hers and continued: "I know that it´s none of my business, but I think there was more between Jessica and Peter than being colleagues at the same law firm, because she came back to visit him in the hospital at least once a year and every time she made time to come to the library and see how we were doing."

Harvey took a sip from his espresso to calm his racing thoughts. So that was why Jessica had sent them here: It wasn't about Peter´s abilities, as good as they might be, but about the relationship she had had with the other man. It made Harvey´s respect for Jessica drop, though, that she wasn't brave enough to come here herself and instead chose to send him.

How was he supposed to knit back together a relationship he hadn't known even existed until right now?

"I haven't seen Jessica, though, since Peter woke from his coma," Hedwig added. "I´d have thought that she would want to see him." She furrowed her brows. "How is she doing, anyway? I try to keep up, but I´m not good at that Internet thing." She shook her head.

Noticing that Harvey was still deep in thought, Donna stepped in and started to tell Hedwig a few bits about Pearson Specter and their smashing successes.

Harvey, meanwhile, wondered what his next step was supposed to be.

* * *

Mike took a deep breath as he stood in the small clearing that had become his teaching spot. The air here tasted different than in New York. Which was an obvious conclusion to come by, after all New York was an accumulation of millions of people and everything they build while Beacon Hills was a small town in the middle of nature. Maybe he just wasn't used to breath without the smell of exhaust fumes, garbage and urine invading his nostrils. Maybe it was also the lack of noise or the lush green scenery around him.

His magic didn't like it, though. It was used to the thrumming energy of New York, that was always running underneath his feet, that was pulsating like a living organism every moment of the day. Here in Beacon Hills, the energy was more like the ocean, slowly moving, deep, calm until a storm arose and pushed the waves to new heights.

Then there was also the residue of the Nemeton. From what Deaton had told him its dark magic had poisoned the surroundings for years, slowly seeping into every fibre of the town and the Preserve. It was destroyed now, but Mike could still feel its echo in the energy around him, like an oily film that stuck to him no matter how often he cleansed himself of it.

Slowly but surely it was healing, though. Now that the Void had been imprisoned again – this time for good – nature did what it was supposed to do: It healed and grew back. In a few years there would be no indication left that anything had happened at all.

Mike was torn out of his thought by the characteristic noise of Stiles marching towards their meeting point: The cracking of twigs, heavy breathing, unintelligible muttering and sometimes even cursing.

"Do I get to do some actual magic today?" the teen asked when he had finally arrived, excitement shining in his eyes.

"Sadly, you have to wait a little bit longer for that," Mike replied, laughing inwardly. He had been like this, too, many years ago.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Stiles asked.

"Meditating."

Stiles face fell.

This time Mike didn't muffle his laughter.

* * *

"You´re late." Stiles let out an undignified shriek as he fell over his own feet and landed on the ground with a loud thud. Scrambling up, he dashed forward and with one smooth movement grabbed the aluminium baseball bat that was always leaning against the wall next to his bed and turned around, ready to rain down hell on whoever had dared to break into his room.

He soon relaxed his stance, though, when he saw that it was only Derek standing in the shadow of the door, looking at Stiles with a mixture of exasperation and annoyance – an all too familiar look on the older werewolf´s face.

"Jesus Derek," Stiles panted. "Have you heard about that new invention called doors? I think humanity´s got them ever since we started to settle and it´s considered impolite to not use them." Siles didn't expect Derek to react to his tirade, so he wasn't surprised when the other man just continued standing on the other side of the room and kept staring at him like he wanted Stiles to combust at any given moment.

"What´s up, sourwolf?" Stiles asked as he lounged himself on his chair, slowly spinning around. He could practically hear Derek´s scowl at the mention of that particular nickname. It never failed to make Stiles laugh.

"I just wanted to make sure that nothing happened to you," Derek finally told him. Stiles snorted.

"Please, what´s supposed to happen to me?" For once Beacon Hills was actually quiet with no supernatural shenanigans going on, something which Stiles prayed would hopefully continue for quite a while. They had had enough excitement to last until retirement.

Nevertheless, Stiles didn't quite manage to supress those fucking stupid butterflies that Derek´s statement managed to dislodge in his stomach. Stiles knew that Derek looked after all Pack members, always taking on the responsibility for their well-being, but when it was just the two of them he liked to imagine that there was a special connection between them.

"We don't know the mage that well," Derek groused. "Trusting newcomers in this town never ends good."

"He´s got a name, you know?" Stiles replied. "And I don't think Mike´s here for some nefarious purpose. He knew my mom."

"He´s prejudiced against werewolves," Derek pointed out.

"Which isn´t nice, I know, but I´m working on it," Stiles told the werewolf.

"You´re working on it?" Derek repeated, furrowing his eyebrows. Stiles just nodded.

"Yeah, I am," he reaffirmed. "Also, it´s kinda nice, you know? Learning magic from someone who actually knows what he´s doing instead of winging it whenever danger arises. I actually feel like I´m moving forward as a person. All of my friends became werewolves or got other powers while I stayed, well, me. Now I can finally keep up."

"You´re more than enough," Derek stated firmly, and Stiles really hoped that the Hale didn't notice how his heartrate suddenly became even more erratic when he said that.

"I know that, don't get me wrong," he replied. "But it´s still nice that I got something of my own."

"What is it even that you´re learning?" Derek wanted to know.

"Not much," Stiles admitted. "It´s mostly theory and mediating till now, but once Mike gets me started on doing some actually magic, I´m gonna move mountains. Literarily." He smiled when he imagined himself dropping some huge-ass rock on the next monster of the week.

Just squashing it. Like a bug.

"Well, I´m glad. I don't think the town would survive you actually doing magic right now."

"Hey!" Stiles exclaimed outraged. He snatched the nearest thing he could get his hand on – a red hoodie, how fitting – and threw it at Derek.

The hoodie, of course, didn't make it even halfway across the distance. And Derek, the asshole, just smiled at him smugly.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Just wait until I can toss a tornado at you!"


End file.
